VERSI1V   OF  CALIFORN  A    SAN   OIEGO 


3   1822  01089  3998 


3   1822  01089  3998 


H 


The  Hill  of  Venus 


THE   ITALIAN   ROMANCES 
OF 

NATHAN   GALLIZIER 


Castel  del  Monte   .....         $1.50 
The  Sorceress  of  Rome          .         .         .  1.50 

The  Court  of  Lucifer     ....  1.50 

The  Hill  of  Venus,      net  $1.35  ;  postpaid,  $1.50 


L.   C.   PAGE   &   COMPANY 
53  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


He  stared  spellbound 

(See  page  108 


THE 
HILL  OF  VENUS 

BY 

NATHAN  QALLIZIER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  Castel  del  Monte,"  "  The  Sorceress  of  Rome," 
and  "  The  Court  of  Lucifer " 


PICTURES  BY 
E.H.GARRETT 


DECOBATIONS  BYP.VERBURG 

L.G.PAGE  $  COMPANY 
BOSTON 

MDCCCCXIII 


Copyright,  1913 

BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  March,  1913 
Second  Impression,  July,  1913 


THE  COLONIAL  PRESS 
C,  H.  SIMONDS  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  TJ.  8.  A. 


CT^HOU  art  all  shrouded  in  a  gauzy  veil, 

Sombrous  and  cloudlike,  all  except  that  face 
Of  subtle  loveliness,  though  weirdly  pale. 

Thy  soft,  slow-gliding  footsteps  leave  no  trace 
And  stir  no  sound.      Thy  drooping  hands  infold 
Their  frail  white  fingers,  and  unconscious  hold 

A  poppy-wreath:  thine  anodyne  of  grace. 

Thy  hair  is  like  a  twilight  round  thy  head, 

Thine  eyes  are  shadowed  wells  from  Lethe-stream, 

With  drowsy,  subterranean  waters  fed; 
Obscurely  deep  without  a  stir  or  gleam. 

The  gazer  drinks  in  from  them  with  his  gaze 

An  opiate  charm,  to  curtain  all  his  days, 
A  passive  languor  of  oblivious  dream." 

—  JAMES  THOMSON 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   THE   FIRST 
The  Sacrifice 

Chapter  Page 

I.     The  Summons 3 

II.     The  Pledge IQ 

III.  Vistas 29 

IV.  Proserpina 50 

V.     Waves  of  Destiny 65 

VI.     The  Broken  Troth 76 

VII.     The   Passage 84 

BOOK  THE  SECOND 

The  Pilgrimage 

I.     The  Vigil  of  Santa  Maria  Assunta      ....  91 

II.     The  Passing  of  Conradino 99 

III.  Tonsure  and  Thorn 105 

IV.  The  Call in 

V.     The  Dells  of  Vallombrosa 114 

VI.     The  Duke  of  Spoleto 121 

VII.    Rome! 134 

BOOK  THE  THIRD 
The  Bondage 

I.     The  White  Lady 141 

II.     The  Feast  at  the  Capitol 150 

III.  Quaint   Wayfarers 162 

IV.  The  Pawn  of  the  Church 173 

V.     The  Red  Tower 185 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  THE  FOURTH 
The  Passion 

Chapter  Page 

I.     Siren  Land 203 

II.    The  Lady  of  Shadows 210 

III.  An  Interlude 229 

IV.  The  Hill  of  Venus 235 

V.     Twilight  Waters 245 

VI.     The  Crimson  Night 254 

BOOK  THE  FIFTH 
The  Apostacy 

I.     A   Legend 269 

II.     Memories 277 

III.  The  Grail  of  Love 281 

IV.  Dead  Leaves 288 

V.    The  Abbey  of  Farfa 295 

VI.     Retribution 303 

VII.     Fulfilment 3*9 


Vlll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

He  stared  spellbound "  (See  page  108)        .        .        .  Frontispiece 

Ilaria  had  interposed  herself  between  the  two  "    .  .        .62 

He  caught  her  to  him  with  all  the  old-time  love "  .        .    226 

'  They  lied,'  he  cried.     '  Give  me  but  life ' "    .       .  .       .313 


Book   the   First 

THE  SACRIFICE 


The  Hill  of  Venus 


BOOK  THE  FIRST 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   SUMMONS 

T  was  the  time  of  the  summer 
solstice  in  the  year  1266. 

Evening  was  falling  on  the 
Basilicata,  the  shadowy,  hazy 
twilight  of  the  fading  mid 
summer  day.  The  pale  green 
leaves  of  the  olive-branches  hung 
limply  from  their  boughs,  but 
the  great  willows  which  drooped 
over  the  meandering  tide  of  the 
Garigliano  now  and  then  stirred  a  feathery  twig  in  response 
to  the  delicate  touch  of  the  evening  breeze.  The  sun  had 
entered  the  waters  of  ancient  Liris  for  his  evening  bath,  leaving 
his  robes  of  crimson  and  gold  draped  in  the  western  sky. 

Everything  in  this  fabled  land  had  grown  enchanted  hi  the 
sunset  glow.  The  plane-trees  drooped  their  leaves,  as  if 
wrapped  in  silent  dreams.  In  the  poppy-fields  the  shrill  insect 
voices  were  hushed,  wan  presage  of  the  coming  dusk.  The 
Liris  rolled  his  sunset  crimson  gold  between  the  broken 
scenery  of  the  hills,  and  the  dark  forests  of  the  Murgie  spread 
waving  shadows  over  the  sun-kissed  Apulian  plains. 
To  eastward  the  towering  promontory  of  Monte  Gargano,  with 

3 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

the  shrines  of  St.  Michael,  patron  of  the  Sea,  rose  sheer  and 
precipitous  from  the  restless  element  which  laved  its  base. 
The  milk-white  Apulian  towns  of  Foggia,  Irani  and  Bitonto 
faded  into  the  horizon  to  southward,  and  the  shadowy  out 
lines  of  Castel  del  Monte,  rising  upon  a  conical  hill  in  the  re 
mote  Basilicata,  terminated  the  view  to  westward. 

Out  of  the  green  dusk  of  forest  aisles  in  which  lost  sun 
beams  quivered,  there  rode  a  horseman  into  the  shadowy  si 
lence  of  the  deepening  twilight. 

Horse  and  rider  alike  seemed  to  feel  the  sway  of  the  hour. 
Then-  appearance  did  not  so  much  as  startle  a  bird,  which 
from  the  boughs  of  a  carob-tree  was  languidly  carolling  a 
slumber  song,  that  melted  away  in  the  purple  twilight  without 
a  single  vibration.  Rider  and  steed  drooped;  the  one  hi  his 
saddle,  the  other  over  the  fragrant  grass,  into  which  the  tired 
hoofs  sank  at  every  step. 

The  solitary  traveller  seemed  lost  in  contemplation  of  the 
scenery,  as  he  now  and  then  paused  in  the  shadow  of  the 
dwarfed  plane  and  carob-trees.  Round  their  grotesquely 
gnarled  trunks  vines  clung  in  fantastic  tapestries  of  living 
green,  between  which  the  path  seemed  to  wind  towards  strange 
twilight  worlds.  Slowly,  as  if  under  the  weight  of  some  heavy 
spell,  the  horseman  continued  upon  the  deserted  road,  when 
he  was  suddenly  roused  from  his  abstracted  reveries  by  the 
sound  of  the  Angelus,  cleaving  the  stillness  with  echoing 
chimes. 

Reining  hi  his  steed  with  a  convulsive  start,  which  caused 
the  startled  animal  to  rear  and  champ  at  the  bit,  he  paused 
and  looked  across  the  vale.  He  had  reached  a  point  at  which 
the  forest  descended  into  one  of  those  deep  ravines  from  which 
arise  the  rocks  on  which  most  of  the  monasteries  of  Central 
Italy  are  built.  On  the  brow  of  the  opposite  hill,  arising  from 
a  grove  of  cypresses  and  pines,  the  any  shafts  of  the  cloisters 
of  San  Cataldo  pierced  the  translucent  air.  The  uplifted  cross 

4 


THE   SUMMONS 

caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  whose  misty,  crimson  ball  was 
slowly  sinking  below  the  world's  dark  rim. 

Slowly  the  horseman  started  on  the  winding  descent  into 
the  valley  below,  thence  on  the  steep  climb  of  the  opposite 
heights,  passing  numerous  groups  of  peasants,  in  grotesque, 
gaily  tinted  garbs,  who  stood  or  knelt  round  the  wayside 
shrine  of  a  saint,  their  bronzed  countenances  aglow  with  fervor 
and  religious  zeal.  Some  pilgrims,  known  by  bearing  the  rose 
mary  branch,  were  visible  among  the  trees  in  the  background.— 

Francesco  Villani  was  tall  and  of  slender  stature.  His  face 
possessed  almost  classic  regularity  of  features.  Hair  of  chest 
nut  brown,  pointing  to  an  extraction  not  purely  Italian,  clus 
tered  round  the  high  forehead.  His  eyes,  gazing  wistfully 
from  the  well-poised  head,  were  the  brown  eyes  of  a  dreamer. 

His  age  might  have  been  reckoned  at  twenty-five.  His 
appearance  and  bearing  were  those  of  one  bred  in  the  sphere 
of  a  court.  His  garb  consisted  of  a  russet-colored  tunic,  fast 
ened  with  a  belt  of  embossed  leather  studded  with  gold,  parti 
colored  hose,  encased  in  leather  buskins,  and  a  cap  with  a 
slanting  plume,  the  ensemble  denoting  a  page  of  some  princely 
household. 

A  shadowy  wilderness  encompassed  the  ascent  to  the  cloisters, 
whose  white  walls  were  sharply  outlined  against  the  greenish- 
blue  of  the  sky.  The  scene  which  on  all  sides  met  the  youth's 
gaze  seemed  almost  unreal.  Laden  with  perfume  was  the 
air,  of  jessamine,  of  styrax,  of  roses  heavy  in  the  breathless 
evening  glow.  Here  and  there,  under  drooping  branches,  he 
passed  a  wooden  cross,  rudely  carved,  marking  the  resting- 
place  of  some  unknown  pilgrim,  or  early  martyr  of  the  faith. 
Wandering  ivy  wound  its  tendrils  round  the  faded  or  half- 
effaced  inscriptions,  and  ilex  foliage  drooped  thickly  over  the 
Memento  Mori  on  the  roadside. 

The  hour  added  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

A  silver  moon,  hovering  midway  in  the  eastern  sky,  began 

5 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

to  scintillate  with  trembling  lustre  on  the  dreaming  world  be 
low.  An  intermittent  breeze  now  and  then  swayed  the  tops 
of  the  stately  holm-oaks,  wafting  the  fragrance  of  almond-trees 
and  oleander  along  alleys  bordered  by  yew-trees.  A  nightin 
gale  poured  forth  its  plaintive  song  from  the  shelter  of  branch- 
shadowed  thickets,  and  from  the  high-domed  chapel  of  the 
cloisters  came  the  muffled  chant  of  the  monks,  borne  along 
on  the  wings  of  the  evening  breeze. 

At  last  the  summit  was  reached. 

Francesco  stopped  before  the  massive  gates  of  San  Cataldo. 

With  a  quick  tightening  of  the  lips  he  dismounted.  Then, 
without  a  second's  pause,  he  seized  upon  the  rope  which 
sounded  a  gong  in  the  porter's  lodge. 

"  Who  is  it  that  would  enter?  "  drawled  a  surly  voice,  quaver- 
ous  with  age. 

Francesco,  with  a  twitch  of  the  lips,  grasped  his  horse's 
mane  and  pulled  it,  till  the  astonished  creature  gave  forth  a 
neigh  of  protest,  at  the  same  tune  rearing  violently. 

Then,  looking  up,  he  shouted : 

"  One  who  would  see  the  Prior  without  delay." 

Forthwith,  the  wicket  was  pulled  back,  and  the  weazened 
countenance  of  Fra  Lorenzo,  the  porter,  appeared  hi  the  opening. 

"  You  would  see  the  Prior,"  he  gibbered,  peering  through 
the  dusk  upon  the  belated  caller,  and  adding  with  the  loqua 
ciousness  of  old  age :  "  If  you  are  he  the  Prior  expects,  you 
have  indeed  need  of  haste." 

With  this  enigmatical  speech  the  small  window  above  was 
shut. 

A  moment  or  two  later  the  heavy  bronze  gates  of  San  Cataldo 
swung  slowly  inward,  admitting  Francesco  Villani  and  his 
steed.  A  lay-brother,  who  appeared  at  the  same  time  from 
an  inner  court,  took  charge  of  the  latter,  while  the  youth 
followed  his  guide,  till  they  stood  directly  in  front  of  the  great 
stone  church,  which  towered,  like  a  huge  cloud-shadow,  above 

6 


THE    SUMMONS 

them  in  the  growing  darkness.  The  chant  of  the  monks, 
which  had  fallen  on  Francesco's  ear  as  he  climbed  the  height, 
had  ceased.  Deep  silence  reigned  in  San  Cataldo;  only  a 
dun  light,  here  and  there,  gave  evidence  of  life  within. 

Passing  the  door  of  the  church,  they  found  themselves 
facing  the  visitor's  entrance  of  the  cloisters.  Before  entering, 
Francesco's  guide  knocked  sturdily  at  the  door. 

In  the  shadows  of  the  dimly  lighted  corridor  there  stood  a 
monk,  tall  of  stature,  who  seemed  to  await  them. 

He  regarded  the  youth  with  gloomy  curiosity,  while  Fra 
Lorenzo,  bent  almost  double  in  self-abasement,  slowly  re 
treated. 

"  You  are  Francesco  Villani  ?  "  spoke  the  Prior.  Yet  it 
sounded  not  like  a  question.  Nor  did  he  extend  his  hands 
in  greeting. 

"  How  is  my  father?  "  came  the  anxious  reply. 

"  Follow  me !  "  said  the  Prior,  leading  the  way,  and  as 
Francesco  strode  behind  the  tall  monk,  of  whose  stern  features 
he  had  caught  but  a  glimpse  in  the  shadow  of  the  corridor, 
he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  unaccountable  dread. 

The  expression  in  the  face  of  the  Prior  was  unreadable, 
but  there  was  little  doubt  he  was  reluctant  to  speak. 

They  passed  in  silence  down  the  refectory,  then  up  a  stone 
stairway,  through  a  maze  of  corridors  lighted  dimly  with  stone 
lamps  and  torches.  At  last  he  paused  before  the  door  of  a 
chamber  which  they  entered,  and  as  soon  as  they  appeared, 
all  those  seated  within  arose  of  one  accord,  while  the  Prior 
silently  pointed  to  a  bed,  under  a  silken  canopy,  whereon  lay 
a  white,  still  form.  And  as  with  quickened  pulse,  with  quick 
ened  step,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  the  youth  strode 
to  the  bedside  and  bent  over  the  passive  form  reclining  among 
the  cushions,  all  those  present  withdrew,  flitting  noiselessly 
as  phantoms  from  the  room,  perchance  more  out  of  respect 
for  the  dying  man  than  regard  for  the  son. 

7 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  My  father!  "  Francesco  whispered  softly. 

Gregorio  Villani,  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of  the  Knigh 
Hospitallers,  who,  in  the  midst  of  his  journey  from  Rome 
Bari,  had  been  stricken  down  with  a  deadly  fever,  opened  h 
eyes.  In  those  gray  orbs  the  old-time  fire  still  lingered  ai 
when  he  spoke,  weak  though  was  his  voice,  the  wonted  rii 
of  command  still  dominated. 

"  Thanks,  Francesco,  for  your  quick  obedience.  It  can 
sooner  than  I  expected." 

"  It  was  my  desire  and  duty,"  came  the  response,  spok< 
almost  in  a  whisper,  as  the  youth  was  noting  each  passii 
change  in  his  father's  weakened  face  and  frame. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  duration  between  them,  i 
if  neither  dared  give  utterance  to  his  thoughts  and  fears. 

Francesco  had  lifted  the  white,  resistless  hand  to  his  li] 
and  tenderly  replaced  it  on  the  coverlet. 

"  All  is  well  now,"  the  elder  Villani  spoke  at  last.    "  R 
freshments  will  be  brought  you.    After  that  we  will  speak 
the  business  of  the  hour, —  the  purpose  of  your  presence  her 
As  yet  —  I  cannot !  " 

The  last  sentence  came  brokenly,  and  with  a  sort  of  shudde 
The  sight  of  his  son  seemed  to  have  unnerved  the  sick  ma 
He  closed  his  eyes  as  if  he  had  been  taken  with  a  sudden  sirL 
ing  spell. 

One  of  the  monks,  who  practised  the  art  of  medicine,  hu 
ried  to  the  bedside  with  a  cordial,  which  he  hastened  to  ai 
minister.  Then  Francesco,  seeing  his  father  sink  back  in 
a  torpor,  left  his  side  and  went  to  a  table  on  which  had  be< 
placed  some  barley  bread,  venison  and  wine. 

Of  this  he  seemed  in  great  need  indeed,  being  thorough 
exhausted  from  the  long  ride  and  the  enervating  emotioi 
through  which  he  had  passed  since  receiving  the  fatal  SUE 
mons. 

Those  who  had  been  present  in  the  chamber  when  he  a 

8 


THE   SUMMONS 

rived,  had  now  re-entered.  In  a  comer,  whence  they  cast 
occasional  glances  at  the  stricken  man  and  at  the  youth  who 
was  devouring  his  repast  with  nervous  haste,  two  confessors  and 
the  monk  who  had  administered  the  cordial,  sat  whispering 
together  in  lugubrious  consultation,  while  the  object  of  their 
concern  lay  upon  the  heavily  canopied  bed,  unheedful  of  their 
talk,  pallid  and  motionless,  his  eyes  closed,  one  hand  clenched 
tightly  on  the  coarse  coverlet. 

His  first  hunger  appeased,  Francesco  watched  the  scene  as 
one  in  a  trance.  In  his  mind  there  was  no  definite  thought  or 
feeling.  All  about  him  there  seemed  to  hang  a  haze  of  ap 
prehension,  vague  and  elusive  as  the  candle-light.  Some 
thing  was  to  happen,  he  felt,  something  strange,  dreadful, 
unguessed.  This  unaccountable  dread  waxed  greater  until 
it  became  impossible  for  him  to  continue  his  repast.  He  fin 
ished  his  wine,  then  sat  quite  still  on  his  wooden  settle,  his 
head  bent,  his  fingers  tightly  interlaced. 

The  monks  thought  he  was  muttering  a  prayer. 

In  reality  his  thoughts  had  fled  from  the  present  hour  to  the 
memory  of  the  scenes  he  had  left  at  the  gay  and  pleasure- 
loving  Court  of  Avellmo,  scenes  of  a  garden  and  balcony,  where 
he  had  been  wont  to  whisper  his  hopes  and  thoughts  into  the 
ears  of  a  proud  girl,  whose  favors,  so  manifestly  bestowed  upon 
himself,  were  vainly  and  eagerly  sought  by  youths  of  nobler 
birth  and  unquestioned  parentage,  when  a  mysterious  some 
thing  recalled  him  to  the  reality  of  the  moment. 

He  rose  mechanically  and  crossed  to  the  bed  whereon  the 
sick  man  lay. 

The  latter  seemed  to  feel  his  presence  and  looked  up. 

"  Are  you  ready?  "  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

Francesco  bowed  his  head. 

The  elder  Villani  raised  his  thin  white  hands. 

"  I  would  be  alone  with  my  son,"  he  addressed  the  monk 
sitting  nearest  his  couch.  Rising  obediently,  the  latter  im- 

9 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

parted  the  sick  man's  wish  to  the  others  who  slowly  filed  out 
of  the  room. 

Wistfully  his  eyes  followed  their  movements,  till  their 
steps  had  died  to  silence  in  the  long  corridor.  Then,  without 
Francesco's  aid,  the  elder  Villani  raised  himself  in  the  cushions. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  hint  of  weakness  in  the  body,  racked 
for  weeks  by  the  ravages  of  the  fever. 

It  was  the  last  flickering  of  the  indomitable  spirit  which 
had  with  absolute  assurance  carried  him  to  the  goal  of  his  am 
bition.  From  the  unknown  monk  he  had  risen  step  by  step 
in  the  service  of  the  Church  Militant,  until  his  name  resounded 
through  the  Christian  and  Moslem  world,  more  powerful  than 
that  of  the  Pontiff,  whom  only  in  matters  spiritual  he  acknowl 
edged  his  superior. 

The  Knights  Hospitallers  had  long  assumed  the  defence 
of  the  Christian  world  against  the  ever  bolder  encroaching 
hordes  of  Islam;  they  had  constituted  themselves  the  guard 
ians  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  Gregorio  Villani  had  not 
shirked  the  duties  which  the  fulfillment  of  his  early  ambition 
had  imposed  upon  him.  On  his  way  to  Rome,  to  rouse  the 
Pope  to  the  proclamation  of  another  crusade,  he  had  stopped 
at  Avellino  in  obedience  to  the  voice  of  his  heart,  which  yearned 
for  the  embrace  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 

The  boy  Francesco  had  indeed  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his 
childhood,  and  the  elder  Villani  could  not  but  commend  his 
own  wisdom,  which  had  prompted  him  to  place  the  youth  at 
the  Ghibelline  court,  disregarding  the  violent  protests  of  Urban 
IV,  who  had  tune  and  again  excommunicated  the  friends  and 
adherents  of  Emperor  Frederick  II.  But  the  irate  enemy  of 
the  Swabian  dynasty  could  ill  afford  to  estrange  from  himself 
the  good-will  of  the  formidable  order  of  St.  John,  and  for  the 
tune,  at  least,  he  had  seemingly  acquiesced. 

And  his  time  had  come. 

The  reunion  between  father  and  son  had  been  affectionate, 

10 


THE    SUMMONS 

but  when  the  father  suddenly  hinted  at  certain  secret  desires 
regarding  his  son's  future,  a  cold  hand  seemed  to  come  between 
them,  which  caused  the  elder  Villani  to  part  with  a  pang 
from  the  offspring  of  an  illicit  love.  He  could  hardly  have 
accounted  to  himself  for  the  subtle  change  which  his  mind 
had  undergone.  And  to  such  an  extent  did  it  prey  on  his 
thoughts,  that  he  laid  his  heart  open  to  the  Pontiff.  What 
transpired  at  their  conference,  not  even  the  elder  Villani' s 
intimate  friends  ever  knew.  But  the  fact  remained,  that  he 
emerged  from  the  private  audience  with  the  cobbler's  son 
a  changed  man,  resolved  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  make 
Francesco  pliable  to  his  designs. 

But  ere  he  reached  the  port  of  Ban,  whence  he  was  to  em 
bark  for  the  Holy  Land,  he  fell  prey  to  a  malignant  fever,  which 
compelled  him  to  forego  his  journey  and  to  place  himself 
under  the  care  of  the  monks  of  San  Cataldo. 

Feeling  his  life  ebbing  slowly  away,  he  had  caused  Francesco 
to  be  summoned  to  his  bedside. 

He  could  not  die  in  peace  with  the  blot  upon  his  conscience, 
the  blot  from  the  womb  of  a  woman,  —  the  blot  called  Fran 
cesco.  Ever  since  he  had  again  set  eyes  on  the  youth,  care 
free  and  happy  among  his  companions,  the  memory  of  his  own 
sin  had  been  present  with  him.  The  fear  of  punishment  in 
the  life  to  come  increased  with  every  day;  the  dread  of  dam 
nation  everlasting  chased  the  slumber  from  his  eyes,  and  the 
man  who  had  defied  the  combined  forces  of  the  Caliph,  trem 
bled  at  the  thought  of  his  own  last  hour  on  earth.  Vainly  he 
had  racked  his  brain  for  some  method  of  atonement  which 
would  dispel  the  ever  present  fear  of  being  barred  from  his 
seat  in  the  Heaven  of  the  Blessed,  which  would  assure  him 
immunity  from  the  lake  of  everlasting  fire.  At  last,  like  a 
revelation,  it  dawned  upon  him:  clearly  he  saw  his  course. 
There  was  the  one  way,  —  there  was  no  choice.  A  sacrifice 
must  be  made  to  save  his  soul,  a  sacrifice  by  one  near  and 

ii 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

dear,  —  yet  Gregorio  Villani  had  no  life  claims  upon  any  one, 
save  his  son.  His  son !  And,  —  as  according  to  the  Scriptures 
the  sins  of  the  father  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children  even 
unto  the  third  generation  and  the  fourth,  —  why,  according  to 
divine  permission,  might  not  the  son  be  requested  to  take  and 
bear  the  consequences  of  his  father's  sin? 

Francesco  stood  by  his  father's  side,  glad  that  the  decisive 
moment  had  come  at  last,  trusting  that  his  gloomy  forebodings 
might  be  dispelled.  Gregorio  Villani  was  looking  at  him  hi 
silence,  with  fearful  eyes  and  slightly  parted,  expectant  lips. 
Finally,  lifting  his  hand,  the  old  man  pointed  to  a  wooden  settle. 
Francesco  understood,  and,  placing  it  near  the  bed,  seated 
himself  thereon,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  father's  face. 

The  elder  Villani  found  it  difficult  to  begin.  Finally,  with 
a  tremor  hi  his  tone,  but  with  desperate  intensity,  he  said: 

"  Francesco  —  do  you  remember  our  converse  at  Avellino?  " 

The  youth  nodded.  He  seemed  to  have  anticipated  a  similar 
preliminary. 

"  You  were  not  born  in  wedlock,"  the  old  man  continued. 

"  So  you  told  me,"  came  the  whispered  reply. 

"  It  was  a  grievous  sin !  "  - 

Francesco  bowed  his  head. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  then  the  elder  Villani  continued: 

"  You  are  my  child,  Francesco,  the  single  evidence  of  my 
swerving  from  the  narrow  path  of  righteousness.  For  years 
have  I  tried  to  atone  for  my  guilt.  Yet,  neither  priest  nor 
pontiff  would  grant  me  absolution ! "  - 

He  paused  and  looked  searchingly  into  Francesco's  eyes. 

The  youth's  face  showed  no  expression,  save  that  of  earnest 
attention.  Taking  breath  again,  the  old  man  continued: 

"  My  hours  are  numbered.  As  I  have  bedded  myself,  so 
I  lie.  In  another  world  I  shall  be  judged !  Judged!  Francesco ! 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  death?  " 

"  I  have  not,"  was  the  answer  given  in  absent  tones. 

12 


THE    SUMMONS 

"  Nor  had  I,  when  I  was  at  your  age,"  returned  the  elder 
Villani,  reverting  to  the  ill-fated  theme.  "  But  I  think  of  it 
now,  —  for  I  needs  must.  When  one  stands  on  the  threshold 
of  eternity,  face  to  face  with  his  Creator,  then  indeed  does 
man  begin  to  bethink  himself.  Even  though  a  priest  might 
have  absolved  me  of  my  transgression,  my  own  conscience 
could  not!  The  vows  of  the  Church  are  sacred.  And  now, 
from  the  height  of  time,  I  look  down  through  the  gallery  of 
years.  My  prayers  of  anguish  and  repentance  have  brought 
no  peace  to  my  heart.  Ever  and  ever  remorse  returns.  Pur 
gatory  opens  before  my  inner  gaze  and  Hell  yawns  to  receive 
my  soul!  " 

Again  the  Grand  Master  paused,  his  strength  failing  rapidly. 

With  a  strong,  final  effort,  however,  he  concentrated  a 
glance  of  powerful  intensity  upon  Francesco's  thoughtful  face. 
The  latter  returned  the  look  with  one  of  earnest  questioning. 

"  And  was  the  sin  so  great?  "  he  queried.  "  Others  have 
committed  worse,  yet  despaired  not  of  Heaven!  " 

The  old  man  sighed.  He  had  made  his  decision,  passed 
these  arguments  from  him  long  ago.  Now  no  word  from  any 
one  might  mitigate  his  judgment  of  himself.  The  thought 
that  his  own  flesh  and  blood  was  taking  so  lenient  a  view  of 
the  matter,  irritated  and  annoyed  him. 

"  I  am  not  Arnold  of  Brescia,  to  soothe  my  conscience  with 
idle  quibbles,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "  I  am  your  father,  face 
to  face  with  the  Hereafter,  filled  with  fear  for  the  repose  of  my 
soul.  The  tenets  of  indulgence  are  not  for  me !  One  may  be 
a  saint  on  earth  and  knock  in  vain  at  the  gates  of  Heaven. 
What  are  others  to  me?  It  is  I  that  am  dying !  " 

Like  a  tidal-wave  breaking  on  the  shore  it  came  to  Francesco 
in  a  sudden  flood  of  understanding.  His  father  had  no  thought 
save  for  himself.  It  was  not  the  happiness  of  others  he  strove 
for,  his  own  welfare  his  first  and  final  goal.  The  ties  of  flesh 
and  blood  meant  nothing  to  him,  save  for  what  he  might  de- 

13 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

mand  of  them  for  himself.  In  his  earlier  years  he  might  have 
allayed  suffering  and  fears  with  words.  What  were  words  to 
him  now? 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?  "  queried  Francesco.  His 
voice  was  low  and  fraught  with  a  great  pity  for  the  dying  man. 

A  gleam  passed  over  the  latter's  face.  At  last  he  had  to 
put  the  question.  All  hung  upon  that  moment,  all ;  —  his 
eternal  happiness  and  damnation.  Should  he  reveal  his 
request  at  once,  with  nothing  to  allay  its  harshness? 

A  sudden  rush  of  pain  decided  the  matter. 

"  You  ask  me  what  you  should  do?  "  he  replied  slowly. 
"  There  is  but  one  thing  to  do,  —  there  is  but  one  choice.  It 
is  for  you  to  live  the  lif e  in  which  I  have  failed.  Take  the  vows. 
Become  a  monk,  content  to  live  apart  from  men,  alone  with 
tomes  and  prayers  and  God,  -removed  from  the  temptation 
which  caused  my  fall!" 

The  sick  man  drew  a  short  and  painful  breath,  scarcely 
lower  in  sound  than  three  words  spoken  close  by  his  side, 
spoken  as  with  the  voice  of  a  phantom. 

"  Become  a  monk !  "  - 

The  elder  Villani  did  not  stir.  He  reclined  in  the  cushions, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  son  with  a  pitiful  look  of  pleading,  which 
might  do  far  more  than  words,  to  prepare  the  youth's  mind  for 
such  a  thought. 

Slowly,  almost  unconsciously,  Francesco  moved  away  from 
the  bed.  His  gaze  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  room. 
His  ideas  refused  to  concentrate  themselves  upon  anything. 
It  was  too  monstrous  to  conceive !  It  was  past  belief,  past 
understanding,  —  an  ill-timed  jest  perhaps  —  but  yet  a  jest! 

And  he  burst  out  with  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  no  thought 
of  mirth. 

"A  monk!" 

The  old  man  regarded  him  anxiously. 

"I  did  not  jest!" 

14 


THE    SUMMONS 

The  laugh  died  to  silence,  then  rose  again  in  his  throat, 
but  Francesco's  eyes  were  terrible. 

"  Am  I  fitted  for  a  monk?  "  he  spoke  at  last.  "  You  know 
what  my  life  has  been.  Have  not  you  placed  me  in  the  sphere 
of  the  court,  even  ere  I  had  attained  the  power  to  think?  How 
can  I  become  a  monk?  What  do  I  know  of  the  way  of  monks? 
What  do  I  know  of  their  lives?  I  must  have  time  to  think!  " 

"  There  is  no  time,"  insisted  the  elder  Villani,  despair  in  his 
eyes. 

"  There  is  no  time !  "  Francesco  exclaimed  aghast. 

Then  all  the  blood  rushed  to  his  heart. 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  to  decide,  here  and  now?  " 

"  Here  and  now!  "  came  the  low,  inexorable  voice. 

The  youth  sprang  from  his  seat. 

"  Then  I  say  no,  —  no,  —  no !  "  he  shouted,  his  eyes  flash 
ing  fierce  determination  from  the  pale  face.     "  I  am  not  fit 
to  be  a  monk !    I  will  not  be  a  monk !    I  am  of  the  living,  —  I 
came  for  the  sunlight,  not  the  shadow  of  the  cloister !   Never  — 
never  —  never !  " 

A  terrible,  indefinable  expression  passed  into  the  eyes  of 
the  sick  man.  It  passed  out  again,  but  the  trace  remained. 

When  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  was  weak,  and  there  was 
a  note  in  it  of  despair. 

"  Deem  you,  that  I  have  not  thought  of  it,  that  I  have  not 
weighed  in  the  balance  all  your  objections  to  the  life  of  the 
cloister  when  I  asked  this  thing  of  you?  You  say  you  are  of 
the  court !  You  came  for  the  sunlight,  not  the  shadow !  What 
man  does  not!  But  you  forget,  there  is  a  force  that  shapes 
our  ends,  —  you  forget  —  your  origin,  —  your  birth !  I  am 
your  father  and  my  sin  is  yours !  We  are  both  impure  hi  the 
sight  of  God !  I  have  opened  a  means  of  salvation  for  both  of 
us  —  the  Way  of  the  Cross.  A  glorious  way  it  is,  for  by  it  my 
soul  shall  belong  to  you!  In  the  sight  of  men  you  are  as 
nothing!  The  blot  of  your  birth  can  never  be  effaced!  But 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

you  are  my  son!  Therefore,  here  on  my  death-bed  I  com 
mand  you  to  leave  this  world,  that  you  may  open  the  way  to 
another,  —  a  better  one,  —  to  both  of  us,  —  to  both  of  us, 
Francesco,  —  to  you  and  to  me !  " 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them,  a  silence  of  dread 
and  expectation  for  the  one,  —  of  fear  and  despair  for  the 
other. 

At  last  Francesco  raised  his  head. 

"  And  she,  whom  I  never  knew,  —  she  who  was  my  mother," 
he  asked  bitterly  —  "  have  you  saved  her  soul?  Or  is  that 
too  left  for  me  to  do?  " 

"  If  prayers  and  penances  avail,  and  masses  untold,  —  her 
soul  is  in  Heaven!  Yet  —  how  do  I  know  if  the  sacrifice 
availed?  " 

Francesco  again  relapsed  into  silence. 

Out  of  the  mist  before  his  eyes  there  rose  his  own  life.  He 
saw  its  shimmering  past,  —  all  the  allurement  for  happiness 
it  held  out,  —  and  the  dreary  future  decreed  for  him,  to  atone 
for  another's  sin. 

"  What  is  required  to  make  a  monk  of  me?  "  he  queried 
with  a  dead  voice.  "  What  cloister  am  I  to  enter?  M 

The  sick  man  breathed  quickly. 

"  All  these  matters  have  I  arranged.  From  His  Holiness 
himself  have  I  letters,  sanctioning  the  matter.  You  will  be 
given  the  right  of  friar's  orders  that  shall  free  you  at  times  from 
the  weariness  and  monotony  of  the  cloister.  In  all  difficulties 
or  troubles  you  will  appeal  directly  to  the  Pontiff !  These  privi 
leges  are  great ! " 

"The  Pontiff!"  Francesco  uttered  with  a  start.  "Pope 
Clement  IV  is  the  mortal  enemy  of  those  to  whom  I  have 
pledged  my  troth,  to  whom  I  owe  allegiance.  I  am  a  Ghibel- 
line ! "  he  concluded,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  thought.  "  I  can 
never  become  a  monk !  " 

For  a  moment  the  elder  Villani  lay  silent,  as  if  dazed  by 

16 


THE    SUMMONS 

this  sudden  unforeseen  resistance.     He  forced  himself  to 
answer  calmly  and  not  to  betray  his  own  misgivings. 

"  Your  reasons  are  mere  sophistry!  "  he  said,  after  a  brief 
pause.  "  Has  the  party  of  Conradino  the  power  to  pave  your 
way  to  Heaven,  —  to  save  my  soul  from  perdition?  To  in 
sure  your  mother's  eternal  peace?  Your  path  lies  henceforth 
with  the  Church,  from  which  only  my  own  perverseness  and 
blindness  had  severed  you.  For  you  henceforth  there  are 
no  commands  save  those  of  the  Holy  Father !  What  are  Guelphs 
and  Ghibellines  to  you  in  this  of  all  homes,  —  when  I  am  lying 
at  the  door  of  death?  " 

"  They  will  look  upon  me  as  an  ingrate,  a  renegade,  a  traitor, 
—  and  she  of  all,  —  she  —  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  What  say  you?  "  asked  his  father  drearily. 

"  Where  am  I  to  go?  "  came  the  monotonous  response. 

"  You  will  repair  to  Monte  Cassino,  there  to  serve  your 
novitiate.  Your  time  is  to  be  shortened  by  special  dispensa 
tion.  At  the  end  of  that  period  you  will  be  called  to  Rome,  to 
enter  the  Chapter  House  of  the  Order  of  St.  John.  It  holds 
out  greater  honor  and  privileges  than  any  hi  the  world.  You 
will  take  your  orders  directly  from  His  Holiness.  The  path 
to  glory  and  to  holiness  lies  open  to  you.  Are  you  satisfied?  " 

A  moan  came  from  Francesco's  lips. 

"  My  strength  is  failing,  —  your  word,  —  to  God !  " 

Francesco  stood  beside  his  father's  death-bed,  his  arms 
hanging  limply  by  his  side.  His  damp  hair  clung  closely  to 
his  head.  His  eyes  were  dull  and  unseeing. 

Like  a  breath  of  the  evening  wind  his  youth  had  passed  from 
him.  His  gaze  was  not  upon  his  father's  face,  but  turned  in 
wardly  upon  the  great  aching  void  where  his  happiness  had 
been. 

When  he  spoke  his  words  were  low,  his  tone  and  his  face 
alike  without  expression. 

17 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  In  the  sight  of  God,  I  promise  to  become  a  monk !  r 

The  old  man,  straining  to  catch  the  words,  drank  them  into 
his  soul. 

His  face  relaxed.  A  sigh  passed  his  lips.  His  failing  strength 
had  apparently  returned  to  him. 

"  You  may  call  Fra  Anselmo,"  he  said  gently.  "  But  first, 
my  son,  kneel  to  receive  my  blessing !  " 

Francesco  stumbled  blindly  to  the  bedside  and  forced  him 
self  to  kneel.  He  shivered,  as  the  sick  man's  hot,  dry  hand  lay 
upon  his  hair,  and  only  by  main  force  he  restrained  himself 
from  crying  out  aloud. 

Then  the  whispered  phrase  of  the  benediction  fell  meaning 
less  upon  his  ear: 

"  Pax  tecum  nunc  et  per  omnia  saecula,  —  Amen!  "  — 


18 


CHAPTER   II 


THE    PLEDGE 


N  the  antechamber  of  the 
elder  Villani's  sick-room,  during 
the  talk  between  father  and 
son,  the  monks  had  quietly 
waited  the  termination  of  the 
interview.  The  Prior  sat  alone 
on  a  settle  in  a  corner,  his  ton 
sured  head  bent  so  low  that  his 
face  was  unreadable,  while  with 
nervous  fingers  he  stroked  the 
cloth  of  his  brown  robe.  One  of  the  monks  was  engaged  in 
expounding  some  dogma  to  his  companions  who  obviously 
paid  little  heed  to  his  words.  A  strange  friar,  who  had  on  the 
previous  night  arrived  from  Rome,  sat  with  the  confessor 
of  San  Cataldo,  but  neither  of  them  spoke.  They,  too, 
seemed  to  be  listening  for  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  cor 
ridor.  The  two  mediciners,  more  at  ease,  sat  murmuring 
professionally  between  themselves,  careless  of  the  mental  un 
rest  of  their  colleagues  of  the  soul.  None  in  the  room,  save 
the  strange  friar,  knew  what  the  elder  Villani  was  saying  to 
his  son,  but  there  were  few  even  among  these  world-strange 
men  who  had  not  guessed  the  truth  long  ago. 

The  minutes  dragged.  The  floating  wicks  in  the  quaint 
stone  lamps  wavered  and  flickered  restlessly  in  their  sconces, 
while  the  uneven  light  from  the  cresset-lantern,  hung  in  the 
centre  of  the  chamber,  cast  distorted  shadows  over  floor  and 
ceiling.  To  all  present  the  wait  was  tedious.  To  the  strange 
friar  whose  eyes  roamed  ever  again  towards  the  sick-chamber, 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

it  seemed  interminable,  and  ever  and  anon  the  monk  at  his 
side  leaned  uneasily  towards  him.  "  Gregorio  Villani  will 
find  the  task  no  easy  one.  He  had  better  left  it  to  one 
of  us!" 

Nevertheless,  when  their  wait  was  ended,  and  the  leather 
hangings  of  the  door  were  raised  by  a  white  hand,  all  in  the 
room  were  startled,  and  gazed  alert  with  wondering  eyes,  and 
lips  on  which  the  words  had  died. 

It  was  a  strange  apparition  that  entered.  For  a  moment  each 
was  aware  of  a  slender  figure  which  seemed  to  sway  even  as 
it  grasped  the  curtain,  of  a  face  ghastly  white,  framed  in  a 
wealth  of  dishevelled  hair,  of  a  voice  whose  sound  seemed  but 
the  hoarse  whisper  of  a  ghost,  as  he  staggered  towards  the 
strange  friar. 

"  My  father  desires  your  presence." 

The  monk  arose  quickly,  glancing  furtively  at  the  face  of 
the  youth,  then  exchanging  a  swift  glance  with  the  Prior. 
At  the  same  time  one  of  the  mediciners  started  up. 

With  an  unspoken  "  Not  yet!  "  the  Prior  waved  him  back, 
and  Francesco  followed  the  strange  friar  from  the  room. 

A  swift  repugnance  against  his  companion,  seemingly  born 
of  the  moment,  filled  the  youth,  as  side  by  side  they  traversed 
the  short  passage-way.  At  the  door  of  the  sick-room,  which 
they  were  about  to  enter,  the  monk  suddenly  paused  and 
turned. 

"  You  have  consented?  "  he  whispered. 

Francesco's  lips  formed  an  answer,  barely  audible,  but 
which  the  monk  at  his  side  caught  at  once. 

Something  akin  to  a  look  of  involuntary  admiration  stole 
over  his  face  and  something  akin  to  a  gleam  of  pity  flickered 
in  his  eyes.  The  admiration  was  for  the  mental  powers  of  the 
elder  Villani,  which,  it  seemed,  not  even  approaching  Death 
could  vanquish.  The  fleeting  pity  was  for  the  son.  But  not 
unmingled  with  both  was  a  look  of  triumph  for  himself. 

20 


THE    PLEDGE 

On  entering  the  sick-room  the  monk  stepped  at  once  to 
the  side  of  the  dying  man.  Gregorio  Villani's  cheeks  were 
slightly  flushed,  his  eyes  were  brilliant,  but  his  voice  was 
weaker  than  it  had  been. 

"  Francesco  has  granted  my  last  wish,"  he  said,  looking 
searchingly  into  the  friar's  face.  "  Have  you  the  briefs  that 
are  required  for  his  going?  " 

The  friar  produced  a  bundle  from  his  cassock,  which  he 
placed  on  the  bed.  Gregorio  Villani  took  up  the  first  scroll. 

"  To  this  one,  containing  the  pledge,  Francesco  shall  put 
his  name,"  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  his  son.  "  The  second  is 
a  letter  from  my  own  hand,  to  the  monastery  and  chapter, 
which  His  Holiness  has  decreed  for  him.  The  third  is  the 
special  dispensation,  granting  friar's  order  to  Francesco. 
Treasure  it  well,  my  son,  for  it  will  prove  the  greatest  boon  of 
your  life!  And  now,  hi  presence  of  this  witness,  you  shall 
sign  your  pledge  to  me  and  to  the  Church !  " 

He  looked  imploringly  at  the  youth,  who  stood  by  with  pale 
face  and  eyes  from  which  every  gleam  of  gladness  had  faded. 
When  Francesco  made  no  reply,  the  strange  monk  stepped  to 
a  table  on  which  there  were  scattered  sundry  writing  utensils, 
and  dipping  a  pen  in  a  composition  serving  as  ink,  brought  it 
to  Francesco. 

The  latter  stared  for  a  moment  from  the  friar  to  his  father, 
his  eyes  ablaze.  Then  he  reached  out,  snatched  the  pen  from 
the  monk's  hand  and  dashed  it  on  the  floor. 

"  Does  not  my  word  suffice?  "  he  spoke  hoarsely,  catching 
at  his  throat  like  a  drowning  man. 

"  The  flesh  is  weak  and  temptation  ever  near,"  —  the 
strange  friar  spoke  in  the  elder  Villani's  stead,  as  he  picked 
up  the  pen  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  sick  man.  There 
was  to  be  no  hesitation,  no  wavering  now.  The  moment  lost 
might  never  again  return ! 

"  You  must  sign  the  pledge,"  the  sick  man,  turning  to  his 

21 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

son,  interposed  tremulously.  His  own  misgivings  ran  apace 
with  those  of  the  strange  monk. 

Snatching  the  pen  from  the  latter's  hand,  Francesco  bent 
over  the  scroll  and  scratched  his  name  barbarously  under 
the  pledge.  Then,  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  it  dropped  anew 
upon  the  floor. 

The  older  man,  who  had  been  watching  him  narrowly, 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  You  have  assured  my  eternal  salvation  and  your  own," 
he  said  in  a  weak,  toneless  voice.  "  Retire  now,  my  son,  that 
this  holy  friar  and  I  may  arrange  the  details  of  your  going." 

A  hot  flush  suffused  Francesco's  face  as  he  straightened 
himself  to  his  full  height. 

"  Of  my  going?  "  he  said  slowly.  "  Surely  I  am  not  yet  to 
go !  Am  I  not  to  wait  at  least  until  —  " 

"  My  death?  "  finished  the  elder  Villani,  looking  at  him  with 
piercing  intentness.  "  You  shall  not  have  to  wait  long.  I 
shall  never  see  the  light  of  another  day!  " 

Francesco  struggled  to  suppress  a  moan  which  rose  to  his 
lips.  Then  he  covered  his  face  with  both  hands.  His  nerves 
were  giving  way.  Further  resistance  was  impossible.  Men 
tally  and  physically  worn,  he  was  encountering  a  will,  pitiless, 
uncompromising.  He  felt  further  argument  to  be  useless. 
And  the  strange  friar,  noting  his  condition,  knew  that  the 
victory  was  theirs. 

He  placed  a  scroll  in  the  elder  Villani's  hands. 

"  The  absolution  from  His  Holiness,"  he  said,  with  a  low, 
solemn  voice,  intended,  nevertheless,  to  be  heard  by  Fran 
cesco.  "  The  conditions  are  fulfilled." 

Francesco  glanced  from  one  to  the  other:  he  understood. 

He  had  been  sold ;  his  youth,  his  life  bartered  away,  like  the 
life  of  a  slave. 

Fearing  an  outburst,  the  elder  Villani  turned  to  his  son. 

"  You  had  best  retire  and  seek  your  rest,  Francesco,"  he 

22 


THE    PLEDGE 

said  in  a  voice  strangely  mingled  with  concern  and  dread.  "  Fra 
Girolamo  and  I  will  arrange  these  matters  between  us.  Leave 
us  in  good  faith.  You  will  depart  on  the  morrow!  I  wish  I 
knew  you  safe  in  the  cloister  even  now !  Go,  my  son,  —  and 
peace  be  with  you!  "  - 

Francesco  turned  silently  to  leave  the  room.  Presently 
something,  a  quiver  of  feeling,  stopped  him.  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  then  he  returned  to  the  bedside,  bending  over  it 
and  gazing  sadly  into  his  father's  face. 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  in  the  morning?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  By  the  will  of  God,"  the  sick  man  replied  with  feeble  voice. 

His  head  had  sunk  upon  his  breast.  Francesco  crossed  the 
room  and  was  gone.  A  moment  after  they  heard  a  loud,  jar 
ring  laugh  without.  Then  all  was  still. 

The  elder  Villani  and  the  monk  exchanged  looks  in  silence. 
For  some  time  neither  spoke.  When  the  silence  was  broken 
at  last,  it  was  in  a  way  which  revealed  the  close  touch  between 
the  minds  of  these  two. 

"  Was  the  struggle  great?  "  questioned  the  monk. 

"  Great  as  the  sacrifice  demanded,"  replied  the  sick  man. 
"  And  yet,  not  as  fierce  as  I  had  apprehended.  Francesco  is 
my  own  flesh  and  blood !  Ah !  At  times  my  heart  reproaches 
me  for  what  I  have  done !  " 

"  A  weakness  you  will  overcome !  In  giving  back  to  the 
Church  the  boy  who  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  her  enemy, 
who  had  been  reared  hi  the  camp  of  her  mortal  foes,  who  had 
been  fed  on  the  milk  of  heresy  and  apostasy,  you  have  but 
done  your  duty.  He  will  soon  have  forgotten  that  other  life, 
which  would  have  consigned  him  to  tortures  eternal,  and  will 
gladly  accept  what  is  required  of  him  for  the  repose  of  your 
soul  and  his  own !  " 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  during  which  the  elder  Villani 
seemed  to  collect  his  waning  energies.  The  monk's  speech 
had  roused  in  him  a  spirit  of  resistance,  of  defiance.  Who 

23 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

were  they  that  would  dispose  of  the  life  of  his  own  flesh  and 
blood?  It  was  too  late,  to  undo  what  he  had  done.  But  it 
should  not  pass  without  a  protest. 

"  Monk,  you  know  not  whereof  you  speak,"  the  sick  man 
said  hoarsely.  "  The  rioting  blood  of  youth  cannot  suddenly 
be  stemmed  hi  the  veins,  and  congealed  to  ice  at  the  command 
of  a  priest!  I  too  was  young  and  happy  once,  —  long  ago,  and 
how  happy!  God  who  knows  of  my  transgression,  alone 
knows !  I  have  paid  the  penalty  with  my  own  flesh  and  blood. 
Tell  His  Holiness,  he  may  be  satisfied !  " 

"  His  Holiness  could  demand  no  less,"  interposed  the 
monk.  "  Your  sin  was  mortal :  you  added  to  it  by  placing  the 
offspring  of  a  forbidden  love  at  the  court  of  the  arch-heretic, 
thrice  under  ban  of  excommunication." 

"  That  was  my  real  sin,  —  that  other  would  have  been  for 
given,"  replied  the  elder  Villani  bitterly,  as  if  musing  aloud. 
"  Let  those  who  are  undefiled,  cast  the  first  stone.  How 
beautiful  she  was,  —  how  heavenly  sweet !  And  with  dying 
breath,  as  if  the  impending  dissolution  of  the  body  had  im- 
buedjier  with  the  faculty  to  look  into  the  future,  she  piteously 
begged  me,  as  if  she  apprehended  my  weakness  after  her 
spirit  had  fled:  —  '  Do  not  make  a  monk  of  my  boy! '  " 

He  paused  with  a  sob,  then  he  continued: 

"  Will  the  repose  of  my  soul,  which  I  have  purchased  with 
this  immeasurable  sacrifice,  insure  her  own  in  the  great  be 
yond?  What  will  she  say  to  me,  when  we  meet  in  the  realm  of 
shadows,  when  the  plaint  of  her  child  is  wafted  to  her  in  the 
fumes  of  the  incense,  while  his  trembling  hands  swing  the 
censer  and  he  curses  the  day  when  he  saw  the  light  of  life?  " 

"  She  will  rather  bless  you,  knowing  from  what  temptations 
of  the  flesh  you  have  removed  him,"  replied  the  monk,  peering 
anxiously  from  his  cowl  down  to  where  the  sick  man  lay. 

This,  at  least,  must  be  no  enforced  sacrifice.  Gregorio  Vil 
lani  must  stand  acknowledged  to  himself  and  the  world  for  the 

24 


THE    PLEDGE 

greater  glory  of  the  Church.  He,  the  one  time  friend  of  Fred 
erick,  the  Emperor,  by  whose  side  he  had  entered  the  gates 
of  Antioch  in  the  face  of  the  fierce  defence  of  the  Saracens,  he, 
the  Ghibelline  Emperor's  right  hand  in  the  conquest  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,  must  now  and  forever  sever  his  cause  from 
that  of  the  arch-enemy  of  papacy,  and  die  in  the  fold  of  the 
Church. 

The  monk  had  calculated  on  the  sick  man's  waning 
strength,  and  the  ebbing  tide  of  life  proved  his  mightiest 
ally. 

The  stricken  man  lay  still  for  a  tune,  then  he  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  God  grant  that  your  words  be  true,  —  that  I  have  not 
cast  him  in  the  way  of  temptation  instead." 

Raising  himself  with  difficulty  upon  his  pillows,  he  glanced 
significantly  at  the  envoy  from  Rome.  Then,  with  voice  need 
lessly  hushed,  for  there  was  no  one  present  to  hear  him,  he 
added : 

"  He  must  depart  at  once !   He  must  not  return  to  Avellino !  " 

The  monk  pondered  a  while,  then  shook  his  head. 

"  It  were  hardly  wise.  Francesco  has  signed  the  pledge  and 
will  not  break  his  oath.  He  must  himself  inform  the  Apulian 
court  of  his  decision,  of  his  choice." 

And  inwardly  he  thought:  Thus  only  will  the  sacrifice  be 
complete  and  the  triumph  of  the  Church ! 

"  Might  he  not  inform  them  from  wherever  he  goes?  " 

There  was  a  strange  dread  in  the  elder  Villani's  eyes,  which 
remained  not  unobserved  by  the  other. 

"  You  would  not  have  Francesco,  flesh  of  your  flesh,  blood 
of  your  blood,  appear  a  coward  who  fears  to  proclaim  his  own 
free  will?  " 

The  monk  laid  stress  on  the  last  words. 

The  elder  Villani  was  startled.    Yet  he  understood. 

"  His  own  free  will,"  he  repeated  as  in  a  dream.  "  The  boy 
is  proud.  He  will  never  proclaim  his  father's  shame ! " 

25 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

The  monk  smiled,  —  a  subtle,  inward  smile. 

Francesco's  extraction  was  an  open  secret,  though  no  one 
had  ever  alluded  to  it  in  his  presence.  Yet  the  Pope's  delegate 
judged  the  youth  correctly.  Besides,  the  elder  Villani's  sug 
gestion  would  have  upset  his  own  and  his  master's  plans. 
The  Church  could  be  wholly  triumphant  only  if  Francesco 
openly  denounced  the  friends,  the  loves  of  his  boyhood,  his 
youth.  A  stealthy  flight  from  the  court  to  the  cloister  would 
scarcely  have  added  to  the  glory  of  those  who  had  brought 
about  the  deed. 

A  sinking  spell  had  seized  the  sick  man  and  the  monk 
hastened  to  call  in  the  attendant  mediciners.  But  the  cordial 
they  administered  with  some  difficulty  only  had  the  effect  of 
producing  more  regular  breathing. 

Gregorio  Villani's  prophetic  words  were  to  be  fulfilled. 

Francesco  meanwhile  lay  in  the  guest-chamber,  which  had 
been  prepared  for  him.  His  brain  rebelled  against  further 
labor  and  his  head  had  scarcely  found  its  welcome  resting- 
place  ere  the  darkly  fringed  eyelids  drooped  heavily,  and  he 
slept.  Through  the  remaining  hours  of  the  night  he  lay  wrapped 
in  a  slumber  resembling  that  of  death.  Only  once  or  twice  he 
moaned,  tossing  restlessly  on  his  pillows.  The  rays  of  the 
morning  sun,  creeping  up  to  his  eyes,  held  in  them  a  drowsy 
dream  of  a  girl's  fair  face.  The  dream  brought  no  awakening, 
and  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  when  a  hand,  cold  and 
thin,  was  laid  upon  his  white  one,  which  lay  listlessly  above  his 
head.  Instantly  he  started  up,  ready  to  resent  the  intrusion, 
when  he  met  the  gaze  of  two  sombre  eyes,  peering  down  upon 
him,  which  recalled  him  to  the  place  and  hour. 

Before  him  stood  the  shrunken  form  of  Fra  Girolamo. 

With  a  deep  sigh,  he  returned  to  reality. 

"  How  fares  my  father?  "  he  asked  quickly,  his  memory 
stirred  by  the  sombre  eyes  that  met  his  own. 

"  Requiescat  in  pace !  "  said  the  monk  with  bowed  head. 

26 


THE    PLEDGE 

Francesco  sank  back  upon  his  cushions  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  arms.  The  monk  heard  him  sob  and,  for  a  moment,  his 
frame  seemed  to  shake  as  with  convulsions.  At  last  he  raised 
himself  with  an  effort. 

"  Conduct  me  to  him! "  he  then  said  to  the  friar,  who  pre 
ceded  him  in  silence  to  the  death-chamber. 

The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  shone  upon  the  face  of  Gregorio 
Villani  and  imbued  the  features  with  a  look  of  peace  such  as 
the  living  had  not  worn  for  many  a  day.  The  monks  had  placed 
his  body  on  a  bier,  on  each  side  of  which  two  tall  wax  tapers 
burned  in  their  sconces. 

Francesco  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  bier,  burying  his 
head  in  his  hands,  while  the  monk  retreated  into  a  remote 
corner  of  the  room. 

When  he  rose  at  last,  the  watcher  saw  all  the  young  life 
go  out  of  his  face,  which  suddenly  grew  old  and  cold.  Light 
and  color  seemed  simultaneously  to  depart  from  eyes  and  lips, 
and  his  limbs  seemed  hardly  able  to  sustain  him  upright. 
After  a  pause  he  dared  not  break,  for  dread  of  revealing  his 
sudden  feeling,  the  youth's  lifeless  voice  was  raised  in  the 
dreary  monotone  of  questioning. 

"  When  will  they  take  him  away?  " 

The  monk  came  nearer. 

"  He  will  be  laid  to  rest  at  night-fall  under  the  great  altar 
of  the  Cathedral." 

A  silence  fell  between  them. 

Again  Francesco  spoke. 

"  The  dial  points  to  something  like  noon?  " 

The  monk  nodded. 

"  When  will  you  ride?  " 

"  At  night-fall." 

"  It  is  well.  You  will  return  to  Avellino,  that  you  may  bid 
farewell  to  your  former  master  and  friends.  Thence  you  will 
proceed  to  Monte  Cassino." 

27 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  To  Monte  Cassino,"  the  youth  echoed  with  a  voice  dead 
as  his  soul. 

Then  he  added: 

"  I  ride  alone?  " 

"Alone!" 

"  Leave  me  now !  I  would  spend  the  last  hours  here  with 
him!" 

"  Will  you  not  come  to  the  refectory?  You  are  in  need  of 
food,  and  the  day  is  long !  " 

Francesco  raised  his  hands  as  if  in  abhorrence  of  the  thought. 
Then,  as  he  turned  towards  the  bier,  he  seemed  newly  over 
whelmed  at  the  sight  of  the  lifeless  clay  before  him.  The 
memory  of  his  father's  first  appearance,  as  he  entered  the  sick- 
chamber,  the  ashen  pallor,  the  traces  of  cruel  pain,  now  soft 
ened  or  effaced  by  the  majesty  of  Death,  reverted  to  him. 

He  sank  down  beside  the  bier. 

But  try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  pray. 

Thus  the  monk  left  him.  — 

On  that  evening,  in  the  presence  of  the  entire  chapter  of  the 
Cathedral  and  the  monks  of  San  Cataldo,  they  laid  to  rest 
under  the  great  altar  of  the  imposing  edifice  all  that  was  mortal 
of  Gregorio  Villani,  Grand  Master  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John. 

And  on  that  evening  the  strange  friar,  who  had  brought  to 
the  dying  man  the  much  craved  conditional  absolution,  de 
parted  after  a  final  interview  with  Francesco,  who  was  to 
return  at  once  to  Avellino  to  prepare  himself  for  the  new  lif e 
which  had  been  decreed  for  him. 


28 


CHAPTER  III 


VISTAS 

HE  morning  dawned  gray  with 
heat.  The  air  was  lifeless. 
The  sun,  rolling  lazily  up  the 
eastern  sky,  scarcely  deigned 
to  permit  his  beams  to  pene 
trate  the  humid  atmosphere. 
In  the  night  a  heavy  dew  had 
fallen  and  the  lush  turf  on  the 
edge  of  the  forest  was  a  spark 
ling  mass  of  drops.  The  fra 
grance  of  the  rose-gardens  and  poppy-fields  environing  San 
Cataldo  was  stifling.  The  very  worms  and  insects  lay  inert 
about  shrubs  and  foliage.  In  the  west,  a  falling  arch  of  heavy 
clouds  hung  low  over  the  distant  mountains.  It  was  an  un 
natural  morning,  which  presaged  a  storm. 

The  forests  of  the  Murgie  were  still  dark  when  Francesco 
Villani  entered  their  cool  and  fragrant  depths.  To  him  the 
smile  of  dawn  on  that  morning  had  been  as  the  mirthless 
smile  of  a  ghost.  For,  with  to-day,  there  had  been  awakened 
the  memories  of  yesterday,  the  consciousness  of  his  impending 
fate. 

Fate !  What  a  future  it  had  prepared  for  him,  a  future  void 
of  everything  which  the  soul  of  man  may  crave,  which  may 
delight  his  heart.  The  sins  of  another  were  to  be  visited 
upon  his  guiltless  head,  —  he  was  to  atone  for  his  own 
existence. 

Yet  even  that  seemed  bearable  compared  with  the  hour  to 
come  at  the  Court  of  Avellino,  the  hour  when  he  must  renounce 

29 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

all  he  held  dear  in  life,  appear  an  ingrate,  a  traitor;  the  hour 
of  parting,  a  parting  for  life,  for  all  eternity  from  the  friends  and 
companions  of  his  youth  and  from  one  who  was  all  the  world 
to  him.  At  the  mere  thought,  the  life  blood  froze  in  his  veins. 

The  forests  of  the  Murgie  gradually  thinned,  and  Francesco 
emerged  upon  a  high  level  plateau,  which  to  southward  sloped 
into  the  Apulian  plains,  and  on  which  the  sun  poured  the  whole 
fervor  of  his  beams,  till  the  earth  itself  seemed  to  beat  up  light. 
And  there  was  no  refuge  from  the  heat  in  that  vast  plain,  which 
soon  spread  on  every  side  with  the  broad  sterility  of  the  Afri 
can  desert.  Half  blinded,  Francesco  cantered  along,  dreading 
every  step  that  carried  him  nearer  to  the  gates  of  his  lost 
paradise. 

A  mysterious  silence  was  brooding  over  the  immense  ex 
panse,  which  became  more  desolate  with  every  step.  The  wide 
plains  reposed  in  a  melancholy  fertility;  flowering  thistles 
were  swarming  with  countless  butterflies;  dry  fennel,  wild 
and  withered,  rioted  round  the  scattered  remnants  of  broken 
columns,  on  whose  summits  wild  birds  of  prey  were  scream 
ing. 

As  the  sun  rode  higher  in  the  heavens,  the  panorama  sud 
denly  changed,  as  if  transformed  by  the  wand  of  a  magician. 
Colossal  plane  and  carob-trees  rose  on  the  horizon,  waving 
fantastic  shadows  over  innumerable  old  crypts  and  tombs 
and  the  fantastic  shapes  of  the  underbrush.  To  southward 
the  view  was  unlimited,  while  in  Francesco's  rear  the  snowy 
cone  of  Soracte  rose  defiantly  over  the  plains,  its  glisten 
ing  summit  towering  ruddy  in  the  light  of  the  midday  sun 
against  the  transparent  azure  of  the  sky.  Wild  expanses  of 
copse  alternated  with  pastures  brilliant  with  flowers.  Herds 
of  black  and  white  cattle  were  browsing  on  either  side,  donkeys 
and  hah*  wild  horses,  and  occasionally  Francesco  passed  a 
large,  white  masseria,  like  a  fortress  glistening  in  the  sun. 
Here  and  there  vineyards  made  brown  patches  in  the  land- 

30 


VISTAS 

scape,  and  the  Caselle  had  the  appearance  of  thousands  of 
Arab  tents,  scattered  over  the  undulating  plain  to  the  rugged, 
purple  hills  of  the  Basilicata,  dimly  fading  away  towards  the 
sun-kissed  plains  of  Calabria. 

Almost  unconscious  of  the  change,  Francesco  rode  along 
with  abstracted  gaze,  his  eyes  as  dead  as  the  Apulian  land,  - 
land  of  the  dead. 

The  knowledge  that  there  lay  before  him  to  southward 
some  fifty  miles  of  solitude  nevertheless  lightened  the  heavy 
burden  in  Francesco's  breast.  The  oppression  of  the  stone 
walls  of  San  Cataldo  had,  in  a  manner,  passed  away.  This 
day,  at  least,  was  his;  this  day  he  was  to  be  alone  and  free. 
Yet,  as  he  rode,  with  the  slowly  diminishing  distance  his  mo 
mentary  relief  went  from  him  again.  He  seemed  to  himself 
to  be  passing  through  a  mighty  sea  of  desolate  thoughts,  whose 
waves  swept  over  him  with  resistless  power,  leaving  him 
utterly  exhausted  when  they  had  passed.  The  realization  of 
his  impending  fate,  his  present  position,  again  took  him  by 
storm.  By  sharp  spasms  the  picture  of  his  future  life  and  its 
dreary  loneliness  rose  before  his  eyes,  then  departed  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  come,  leaving  behind  it  a  black  void.  The 
sensation  was  almost  insufferable.  In  the  periods  of  mental 
numbness,  when  even  the  desire  for  struggle  seemed  to  have 
been  swallowed  up  by  the  black  gulf  of  his  despair,  he  wondered 
vaguely  if  his  brain  had  been  turned  by  the  sudden  prospect 
of  life's  changes.  The  sunny,  care-free  days  in  the  Castle  of 
Avellino,  the  companionship  of  those  of  his  own  age,  others 
whom  he  loved  and  esteemed,  the  hopes  and  ambitions  nur 
tured  and  fostered  in  an  untainted  heart:  —  all  these  he  saw 
slowly  vanishing  like  some  Fata  Morgana  of  the  desert. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  discord  had  come,  and  the  endless 
vibration  of  its  echoes  was  to  make  his  life  miserable,  per 
haps  unendurable.  Created  eminently  for  the  life  in  the  sunny 
sphere  of  a  court,  young,  handsome  of  face  and  form,  easily 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

influenced  by  friendship,  easily  fascinated  by  beauty,  all  en 
vironment  suited  to  the  qualities  and  endowments  of  nature 
was  suddenly  to  be  snatched  away.  He  was  standing  utterly 
alone  in  a  strange  land,  in  a  new  atmosphere,  in  which  at 
great  distances,  dim,  unknown  figures  were  eyeing  him,  in 
visible,  yet  terrible  walls  waiting  to  enclose  him  and  his  youth 
as  in  a  tomb.  His  world  was  gone.  The  new  one  was  filled 
with  shadows.  Yet  —  why  rebel,  until  the  light  had  broken 
upon  the  horizon,  until  the  worst  and  best  of  it  all  was  known 
to  him?  At  least,  in  obeying  the  commands  of  his  father,  he 
had  done  what  men  would  call  right,  —  and  more  than  right. 

So  were  the  miles  before  him  lessened  until,  with  the  slowly 
declining  orb  of  day,  he  came  in  sight  of  the  walls  and  towers 
of  Benevento,  in  which  city  he  would  spend  the  night,  to 
continue  his  journey  to  Avellino  on  the  morrow. 

The  bell  of  Santa  Redegonda  was  wailing  through  the  deep 
hush  of  evening,  which  brooded  over  the  fateful  city,  when 
Francesco  crossed  the  bridge  spanning  the  Galore,  the  waves 
of  ancient  Luis  rolling  golden  towards  the  tide  of  the  Vol- 
turno.  As  he  slowly  traversed  the  fatal  field  of  Grandello, 
his  gaze  involuntarily  sought  the  rock  pile  under  which  the 
body  of  Manfred  had  lain,  until  released  by  the  papal  legate, 
yet  buried  in  unconsecrated  ground.  All  life  seemed  to  be 
extinct  as  in  a  plague-ridden  town,  and  the  warden  nodded 
drowsily  as  under  the  shadows  of  the  grim  Longobard  fortress 
Francesco  rode  through  the  ponderous  city  gate,  over  which, 
sculptured  hi  the  rose-colored  granite,  the  Boar  of  Benevento 
showed  his  tusks. 

After  having  traversed  several  thoroughfares,  without  hav 
ing  met  a  single  human  being,  Francesco  permitted  his  steed 
to  be  its  own  guide,  for  the  moment  strangely  fascinated  by 
the  aspect  of  the  city,  before  whose  walls  the  destinies  of  an 
empire  and  an  imperial  dynasty  had  been  decided.  Slowly  he 
rode  under  the  stupendous  arch  of  the  Emperor  Trajan,  which 

32 


VISTAS 

now  spans  the  road  to  Foggia,  as  it  once  did  the  Via  Appia. 
Far  away  on  the  slopes  of  a  mountain  shone  the  white  Apulian 
town  of  Caiazzo,  while  Monte  Vergine  and  Monte  Vitolano 
stood  out  black  against  the  azure  sky. 

Traversing  an  avenue  of  poplar  trees,  which  intersected  the 
old  Norman  and  Longobard  quarters  of  the  town,  Francesco 
was  struck  with  a  strange  sight,  that  caused  him  to  spur  his 
steed  to  greater  haste  and  to  hurry  shudderingly  past,  mutter 
ing  an  Ave. 

On  every  other  tree,  for  the  entire  length  of  the  avenue, 
there  hung  a  human  carcass.  The  bodies  seemed  to  have 
been  but  recently  strung  up,  yet  above  the  tree  tops,  in  the 
clear  sun-lit  ether,  a  vulture  wheeled  slowly  about,  as  if  in 
anticipation  of  his  gruesome  feast. 

The  distorted  faces  and  the  garbs  of  the  victims  of  this 
mass-execution  left  little  to  the  mere  surmise,  regarding  the 
nature  of  their  crime.  Yet  an  instinct  almost  unfailing  told 
Francesco  that  these  were  not  the  bodies  of  thieves  or  bandits, 
and  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  Campanile  of  the  semi- 
oriental  monastery  of  St.  Juvenal  relieved  the  gruesome  view. 
After  diving  into  the  oldest  part  of  the  city,  whose  narrow,  tor 
tuous  lanes  were  bordered  by  tall,  gloomy  buildings  decked 
out  in  fantastic  decorations  in  honor  of  one  saint  or  another, 
Francesco  chanced  at  last  upon  a  pilgrim  hobbling  along  who, 
having  for  some  time  followed  hi  his  wake,  suddenly  caught 
up  with  him  and  volunteered  to  guide  him  to  an  inn,  of  whose 
comfort,  at  the  present  hour,  the  traveller  stood  sorely  in  need. 
For  he  had  not  quitted  the  saddle  since  early  dawn,  nor  had  he 
partaken  of  food  and  drink  since  he  rode  out  of  the  gates  of 
San  Cataldo.  The  endurance  of  his  steed,  like  his  own,  was 
well-nigh  spent,  and  he  eagerly  accepted  the  pilgrim's  offer. 

The  latter  proved  somewhat  more  loquacious  than  chimed 
with  Francesco's  hungry  bowels,  yet  he  submitted  patiently 
to  his  guide's  overflowing  fount  of  information,  the  more  so 

33 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

as  much  of  it  stimulated  his  waning  interest.  They  passed 
the  Osteria,  where  the  famous  witches  of  Benevento  were 
said  to  have  congregated.  A  woman,  thin  and  hawk-faced, 
with  high  shoulders  and  a  lame  foot,  was  standing  in  the 
centre  of  a  huge  vault  ladling  a  cauldron  suspended  from  the 
ceiling  by  heavy  chains.  Heavy  masses  of  smoke  rolled  about 
inside,  illumined  now  and  then  by  long  tongues  of  wavering 
flames,  which  licked  the  stone  ceiling  and  lighted  up  quaint 
vessels  of  brass  hanging  on  the  rough  walls.  As  she  ladled, 
the  crone  sang  some  weird  incantation  with  the  ever  returning 
refrain : 

"  The  green  leaves  are  all  red, 
And  the  dragon  ate  up  the  stars." 

They  passed  the  stump  of  the  famous  walnut-tree,  to  which, 
riding  on  goats  with  flaming  torches  in  their  hands  and  sing 
ing: 

"  Sotto  acqua  e  sotto  viento 
Alia  noce  di  Beneviento," 

the  witches  used  to  fly  from  hundreds  of  miles  around,  and 
which  tree  had  been  cut  down  in  the  time  of  Duke  Romuald, 
by  San  Barbato  in  holy  zeal. 

Passing  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  palace  where  the  ill-fated 
Prince  of  Taranto  had  spent  his  last  night  on  earth,  they  turned 
down  a  narrow,  tortuous  lane  and  shortly  arrived  before  an  old 
Abbey  of  Longobard  memory,  forbidding  enough  in  its  aspect, 
which  now  served  the  purpose  of  a  hostelry. 

A  battered  coat-of-arms  over  the  massive  arch,  under  which 
some  now  indistinct  motto  was  hewn  in  the  stone,  attracted  for 
a  moment  Francesco's  passing  attention  as  he  rode  into  the 
gloomy  court.  As  he  did  so,  his  hand  involuntarily  gripped  the 

34 


VISTAS 

hilt  of  the  hunting  knife  which  he  carried  in  his  belt  and  a  hot 
flush  of  resentment  swept  over  his  pale  face. 

It  needed  not  the  emblem  of  the  Fleur-de-Lis,  nor  their 
lavish  display  on  shields  and  armors,  to  inform  him  that  he 
saw  before  him  a  detachment  of  Anjou's  detested  soldiery, 
detested  alike  by  the  people  and  by  the  Church,  for  the  greater 
glory  of  which  a  fanatic  Pontiff  had  summoned  them  into  Italy. 
In  part,  at  least,  Clement  IV  was  to  reap  the  reward  of  his  own 
iniquity,  for  the  Provencal  scum,  whom  he  had  dignified  by 
the  name  of  crusaders,  plundered  and  insulted  with  equal 
impartiality  friend  or  foe,  and  hi  vain  the  exasperated  Pontiff 
threatened  to  anathemize  his  beloved  son,  as  he  had  pom 
pously  styled  the  brother  of  the  King  of  France,  who  now 
held  the  keys  to  his  dominions. 

Dismounting,  Francesco  threw  the  reins  of  his  steed  to  a 
villainous  looking  attendant,  who  had  come  forth  and  led  his 
horse  to  the  nearby  stables.  Then,  by  the  side  of  the  pilgrim 
who  seemed  bent  upon  seeing  him  comfortably  lodged,  or 
else  to  claim  some  recompense  for  his  services  as  guide  and 
chronicler,  he  strode  through  the  ranks  of  Anjou's  soldiery, 
whose  insolent  gaze  he  instinctively  felt  riveted  upon  himself, 
toward  the  guest-chamber  of  the  inn. 

That  his  guide  was  no  stranger  to  the  Abbey  and  that  his 
vocation  had  not  been  exercised  for  the  first  time  on  the 
present  occasion,  soon  became  apparent  to  Francesco.  For 
the  captain  of  the  Provencals  treated  him  with  a  familiarity 
which  argued  for  a  closer  acquaintance,  while  the  native  inso 
lence  of  a  follower  of  Anjou  aired  itself  in  the  lurid  mirth 
which  the  pilgrim  seemed  to  provoke. 

Their  brief  conversation,  carried  on  in  Provencal,  accom 
panied  with  unmistakable  glances  of  derision  towards  himself 
that  caused  the  hot  blood  to  surge  to  Francesco's  brow,  was 
but  in  part  intelligible  to  the  latter,  who  was  listening  with  an 
ill-assumed  air  of  indifference. 

35 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  What?  An  addition  to  our  company?  "  drawled  the  Pro 
vencal,  addressing  the  pilgrim. 

"  Ay,  faith,  and  a  most  proper,"  returned  'the  latter  sanc 
timoniously.  "  Just  arrived  from  foreign  parts." 

"  Has  he  been  cooling  his  heels  hi  Lombardy  running  from 
the  Guelphs?  Or  comes  he  from  Rimini,  studying  the  art  of 
cutting  throats  in  a  refined  manner?  " 

The  pilgrim  shrugged.  Francesco  saw  him  clasp  his  rosary, 
as  if  he  was  about  to  mutter  an  Ave. 

"  Mayhaps  from  Padua,  learning  the  art  of  poisoning  at  the 
fountain-head?  Eh?  Or  from  Bologna,  having  joined  the 
guild  of  the  coopers?  " 

"  They  say  the  Bolognese  have  tightened  the  hoops,  since 
they  discovered  a  strange  amber  beverage  leaking  from  one 
of  then-  casks." 

At  this  allusion  to  the  attempted  escape  of  the  ill-fated  King 
Enzo  from  the  city  which  was  to  remain  his  prison  to  the  end, 
the  Provencal  laughed  brutally  and  the  pilgrim,  with  a  sig 
nificant  glance  at  his  companion,  proceeded  to  enter  the  inn. 

Throwing  open  the  door  of  a  large  apartment,  battered  and 
decayed,  but  showing  unmistakable  traces  of  former  magnifi 
cence,  he  beckoned  to  Francesco  to  enter,  and,  without  waiting 
the  latter's  pleasure,  summoned  the  host,  a  large-nosed  Cala- 
brian  with  high  cheek-bones  and  villainous  looks.  Having 
taken  proper  cognizance  of  their  wants,  the  latter  departed  to 
fetch  the  viands.  Then  they  took  then-  seats  at  a  heavy  oaken 
table,  and,  gazing  about  the  dimly  lighted  guest-chamber, 
Francesco  noted  that  it  was  deserted,  save  for  themselves  and 
two  men  hi  plain  garbs,  seated  at  the  adjoining  table.  They 
appeared  to  be  burghers  of  the  town,  and  Francesco  took  no 
further  heed  of  them,  but  pondered  how  to  rid  himself  of  his 
companion,  whose  presence  began  to  grow  irksome  to  him. 

The  host  soon  entered  with  the  repast,  consisting  of  cheese, 
a  rough  wine  and  barley  bread.  Francesco,  being  exhausted 

36 


VISTAS 

and  out  of  temper,  ate  in  silence,  and  the  pilgrim,  after  having 
voraciously  devoured  what  he  considered  his  share  of  the  re 
past,  arose.  After  muttering  profuse  thanks  Francesco  saw 
him  exchange  a  nod  with  the  two  worthies  at  the  adjoining 
table,  then  hobble  from  the  room  by  a  door  opposite  the  one 
through  which  they  had  entered. 

A  chance  side  glance  at  the  other  guests  of  the  Abbey,  who 
ate,  for  the  most  part,  in  silence  or  spoke  in  hushed  tones, 
informed  Francesco  that  he  was  the  object  of  their  own  curi 
osity,  for  though  he  appeared  not  to  gaze  in  their  direction,  he 
repeatedly  surprised  them  peering  at  him,  then  whispering 
to  each  other,  and  his  nervous  tension  almost  made  their  scru 
tiny  unendurable. 

Surrounded  as  he  knew  himself,  however,  by  so  question 
able  a  company,  from  which  the  Calabrian  host  was  by  no 
means  excluded,  he  resolved  to  restrain  himself  and  again 
fell  to  his  repast,  to  which  he  did  ample  justice,  at  intervals 
scrutinizing  those  whose  scrutiny  he  resented  and  in  whom, 
after  all,  he  scented  more  than  chance  travellers. 

The  one  was  a  man  of  middling  height,  spare  frame,  past 
the  middle  age  of  life,  if  judged  by  the  worn  features  and  the 
furrowed  brows.  The  expression  of  his  countenance  was 
ominous  and  forbidding.  The  stony  features,  sallow,  sunken 
cheeks,  hollow,  shiftless  eyes  inspired  an  immediate  aversion. 

From  beneath  a  square  cap  there  fell  upon  the  sunken 
temples  two  stray  locks  of  auburn  hair.  This  cap,  much  de 
pressed  on  the  forehead,  added  to  the  shade  from  under  which 
the  eyes  peered  forth,  beneath  scant  straight  brows.  Francesco 
had  some  difficulty  in  reconciling  his  looks  with  the  simple- 
ness  of  his  gown  in  other  respects.  He  might  have  passed 
for  an  itinerant  merchant,  yet  there  was  something  in  his 
countenance  which  gainsaid  this  supposition.  A  small  orna 
ment  in  his  cap  especially  drew  Francesco's  attention.  It 
was  a  paltry  image  of  the  Virgin  in  lead,  such  as  poorer  pil- 

37 


THE    HILL   OF    VENUS 

grims  brought  from  the  miraculous  shrines  of  Embrun.  There 
was  something  strangely  immovable  and  fateful  about  the 
clean-shaven  jaw  and  chin,  the  thin  compressed  lips,  some 
thing  strangely  hardened  in  the  straight  nose  and  the  fatuous 
smile,  in  the  restless  glitter  of  the  eyes. 

His  companion,  of  stouter  build  and  a  trifle  taller,  seemed 
more  than  ten  years  younger.  His  downcast  visage  was  now 
and  then  lighted  or  distorted  by  a  forced  smile,  when  by  chance 
he  gave  way  to  that  impulse  at  all,  which  was  never  the  case, 
save  in  response  to  certain  secret  signs  that  seemed  to  pass 
between  him  and  the  other  stranger.  This  personage  was 
armed  with  a  sword  and  a  dagger,  but,  underneath  their  plain 
habits,  Francesco  observed  that  they  both  wore  concealed 
a  Jazeran,  or  flexible  shirt  of  linked  mail. 

The  unabated  scrutiny  of  these  two  individuals  at  last 
caused  such  a  sensation  of  discomfort  to  Francesco,  who 
imagined  that  all  eyes  must  have  read  and  guessed  his  secret, 
that  he  regretted  having  remained  under  the  same  roof,  and, 
but  for  his  unfamiliarity  with  the  roads,  he  would  have  been 
tempted  even  now  to  pay  his  reckoning  and  to  leave  the  Abbey. 
But  even  while  he  was  weighing  this  resolve,  he  surprised 
the  gaze  of  the  older  of  the  two  resting  upon  him  with  an 
expression  of  such  undisguised  mockery  that  at  last  his  re 
straint  gave  way. 

Rising  from  his  seat,  he  slowly  strode  to  the  table  where  the 
two  strangers  were  seated. 

"  Why  are  you  staring  at  me?  "  he  curtly  addressed  the  older, 
who  seemed  in  no  wise  abashed  by  his  action. 

"  Fair  son,"  said  that  personage,  "  you  seem,  from  your 
temper  and  quality,  at  the  right  age  to  prosper,  whether  among 
men  or  women  —  if  you  but  serve  the  right  master.  And, 
being  in  quest  of  a  varlet  for  him  to  whom  I  owe  fealty,  I  was 
pondering  if  you  were  too  high-born  to  accept  such  a  service." 

Francesco  regarded  the  speaker  curiously. 

38 


VISTAS 

"  If  your  offer  is  made  in  good  faith,  I  thank  you,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  fear  I  should  be  altogether  unfit  for  the  service  of 
your  master!  " 

"  Perchance  you  are  more  proficient  with  the  pen  than  the 
sword,"  replied  his  interlocutor.  "  That  may  be  mended  with 
time." 

"  The  monks  have  taught  me  to  read  and  write.  But  if 
any  one  question  my  courage,  let  them  not  provoke  me." 

"  Magnificent,"  drawled  he  of  the  Leaden  Lamb.  "  By 
Our  Lady  of  Embrun!  He  whom  you  serve  would  greatly 
miss  a  Paladin  like  you,  if  perchance  the  truce  should  suddenly 
be  broken ! " 

This  was  said  with  a  glance  at  his  companion,  who  answered 
the  sentiment  with  a  lowering  smile,  which  gleamed  along  his 
countenance,  enlivening  it  as  a  passing  meteor  enlivens  a 
winter  sky. 

"  Paladin  enough  for  such  as  either  of  you,"  Francesco  re 
torted  hotly.  "  I  know  not  what  master  you  serve,  nor  in  what 
capacity,  but  your  insolence  argues  little  in  his  favor." 

At  this  they  both  began  to  laugh  and  Francesco,  observing 
the  hand  of  the  speaker's  companion  stealing  to  the  hilt  of  his 
poniard,  dealt  him  without  wavering  with  his  own  sheathed 
weapon  a  sudden  blow  across  the  wrist,  which  made  him  with 
draw  his  hand  with  a  menacing  growl. 

This  incident  at  first  seemed  to  increase  his  companion's 
mirth. 

But  the  laughter  suddenly  died  out  of  the  eyes  of  the  older 
man  and  the  look  he  bestowed  on  Francesco  caused  the  latter 
to  shiver  despite  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night. 

"  Hark  you,  fair  youth,"  he  said  with  a  grave  sternness, 
which,  despite  all  he  could  do,  overawed  Francesco.  "  No 
more  violence!  I  am  not  a  fit  subject  for  it,  neither  is  my 
companion.  What  is  your  name  and  business?  " 

The  speech  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  unmasked  brutality 

39 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

which  caused  Francesco's  hands  to  clench,  as  if  he  would 
strike  his  interrogator  dead. 

"  When  I  desire  your  master's  employment,  I  shall  not 
fail  to  tell  him  my  name  and  business.  Until  I  do,  suffice  it 
for  you  to  know,  that  I  owe  an  account  of  myself  to  no  one 
save  my  own  liege  lord ! " 

"  And  who  may  he  be? "  drawled  he  with  the  Leaden 
Lamb. 

Francesco  had  it  in  his  mind  to  retort  in  a  manner  which 
might  have  startled  his  interrogator.  But  though  he  restrained 
himself,  he  fairly  flung  the  words  into  the  face  of  the  other. 

"  To  no  lesser  a  man  than  the  Viceroy  of  Apulia !  " 

A  sneer  he  did  not  try  to  conceal,  distorted  the  older  man's 
face  and,  irritated  by  a  gesture  which  heightened  his  sinister 
appearance,  Francesco  leaned  towards  him. 

"  Perchance  you  boast  a  better?  " 

He,  to  whom  the  question  was  put,  exchanged  a  swift  look 
with  his  companion,  as  if  to  warn  him  to  keep  quiet. 

"  Charles  of  Anjou  and  Provence  has  no  ugly  favor  to  look 
upon,"  came  the  drawling  reply. 

"The  blood-thirsty  butcher !"  burst  out  Francesco,  with  all 
the  innate  hatred  of  the  Ghibelline  for  his  hereditary  foe. 
"  Yet  I  might  have  thought  so !  " 

"  Indeed ! "  drawled  he  of  the  Leaden  Lamb  with  a  swift 
side  glance  at  his  companion,  who  moved  restlessly  in  his  seat. 
"  And  would  you  tell  him  so,  were  you  to  meet  him  face  to 
face?  " 

"  Yea,  —  and  in  his  native  hell !  "  exclaimed  Francesco. 

"  Magnificent! "  uttered  his  interlocutor,  whose  face  seemed 
utterly  bloodless  in  the  waning  evening  light,  while  that  of  his 
companion  seemed  to  have  borrowed  all  its  leaden  tints. 
"  Yet,  fair  youth,  we  are  in  King  Charles'  realm,  and  they  say 
even  the  leaves  of  the  trees  have  ears  which  carry  all  that  is 
spoken  to  the  King's  own ! " 

40 


VISTAS 

"  Should  I  see  them  in  a  human  head,  I  should  not  hesi 
tate  to  crop  them,"  Francesco  replied  with  a  meaning  ges 
ture.  Then  he  turned  abruptly  to  return  to  his  own 
table. 

"  A  very  laudable  desire !  "  drawled  he  of  the  Leaden  Lamb, 
appearing  not  to  notice  Francesco's  intention.  "  And  per 
chance,  fair  youth,  you  have  but  lately  seen  some  trees  bear 
ing  strange  fruit." 

Stirred  by  the  memory  of  the  poplar  avenue  he  had  so  re 
cently  traversed,  Francesco  wheeled  about. 

"  That  have  I,"  he  flashed.    "  The  work  of  a  miscreant!  " 

He  of  the  Leaden  Lamb  interposed  with  a  warning  gesture, 
while  his  companion  had  slowly  arisen  from  his  seat. 

"  The  sight  is  in  no  ways  strange,  fair  youth,"  he  drawled, 
his  eyelids  narrowing  as,  from  under  the  shade  of  his  head 
gear,  he  ominously  glared  at  Francesco.  "  When  the  summer 
fades  into  autumn,  and  the  moonlight  nights  are  long,  he  who 
then  lives  may  see  clusters  of  ten,  even  twenty  such  acorns 
dangling  from  the  branches.  For,"  he  continued,  and  his 
voice  grew  cold  and  hard  as  steel,  "  each  rogue  that  hangs 
there,  is  a  thief,  a  traitor  to  the  Church,  an  excommunicated 
wretch!  These  are  the  tokens  of  Anjou's  justice,  and  this  is 
the  fate  which  awaits  a  Ghibelline  spy !  " 

Raising  the  heavy  drinking  vessel,  the  speaker,  as  if  to  lend 
emphasis  to  his  words,  let  it  crash  down  upon  the  oaken  board, 
and,  as  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal,  the  door  of  the  guest- 
chamber  flew  open,  and  in  rushed  the  rude  soldiery  of  Anjou, 
in  whose  wake  followed  the  terrified  Calabrian  host. 

Ere  Francesco  grasped  the  meaning  of  what  had  happened, 
his  arms  had  been  pinioned  behind  him  and,  utterly  dazed, 
the  words  he  heard  spoken  rang  in  his  ears,  like  the  knell  of 
his  doom. 

"  Fairly  caught!  "  drawled  he  of  the  Leaden  Lamb,  turning 
to  bis  companion,  who  glared  viciously  at  Francesco.  "  Did 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

I  not  tell  you,  there  was  more  in  this  than  the  chance  re 
semblance  of  a  Ghibelline  nose  and  eye?  Take  him  away  and 
hang  him  at  sunrise !  " 

This  command  was  addressed  to  the  captain  of  the  Pro 
vencals,  whose  witticisms  at  his  expense  had  aroused  such  a 
resentment  in  Francesco's  heart  on  his  arrival  at  the  inn. 
He  felt  himself  jostled  and  buffeted  by  the  Pontiff's  crusaders, 
whose  ill-repressed  mirth  now  vented  itself  in  venomous  in 
vectives,  in  which  he  in  command  freely  joined. 

Too  proud  to  ask  his  tormentors  for  the  cause  of  his  treat 
ment,  which  they  would  in  all  probability  withhold,  Francesco, 
now  on  the  verge  of  mental  and  physical  collapse,  found  him 
self  dragged  across  a  court  at  the  remoteness  of  which  the 
walls  of  the  Abbey  converged  into  a  sort  of  round  tower. 
While  the  host  of  the  inn,  heaping  a  million  imprecations  on 
the  head  of  his  newly  arrived  guest,  and  bemoaning  his  unpaid 
reckoning,  unlocked  a  strong  oaken  door  at  the  command  of 
the  Provencal  leader,  Francesco  stood  by  as  one  too  utterly 
dazed  to  resent  the  Calabrian's  insults,  and  scarcely  had  the 
grinding  sound  of  the  door  turning  on  its  rusty  hinges  fallen 
on  his  ears,  than  he  found  himself  rudely  grasped  and  pushed 
into  a  dark,  prison-like  cell,  apparently  without  any  light  from 
without.  He  stumbled,  fell,  and  his  ear  caught  the  rude 
laughter  of  those  without,  a  mirth  his  own  endeavors  to 
scramble  to  his  feet  had  incited.  For  they  had  not  released 
his  arms,  and  his  frantic  efforts  to  free  them  from  their  bonds 
exhausted  the  last  remnant  of  his  strength.  With  a  heart 
rending  moan  he  dragged  himself  over  the  wet  and  slimy 
floor  to  the  wall,  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  found 
himself  alone  hi  almost  Stygian  darkness. 

"To  be  hanged  at  sunrise !  " 

The  words  rang  in  his  ears  like  the  knell  of  fate.  For  what 
crime  had  he  been  condemned  unheard,  without  defence? 
He  was  too  weary  to  think.  All  he  knew  and  vaguely  felt  was, 

42 


VISTAS 

that  it  was  all  over,  and  with  the  thought  there  came  a  numb 
ness  almost  akin  to  indifference,  a  weariness  engendered 
by  the  double  ordeal  he  had  undergone  in  so  short  a  space  of 
time.  What  if  the  spark  of  life  were  to  be  suddenly  extin 
guished,  of  a  life  that  had  become  utterly  without  its  own 
recompense?  What  if  this  quick  release  had  been  decreed 
by  fate?  But  to  die  like  a  malefactor,  the  prey  of  the  vulture 
and  the  birds  of  ill-omen,  which  he  had  seen  coursing  above 
the  bodies  of  those  so  recently  executed;  —  no,  —  not  this 
death  at  least,  not  this !  With  a  last  frantic  effort  of  the  faintly 
returning  tide  of  life  he  tried  to  release  himself  of  his  shackles. 
But  his  efforts  served  only  to  drive  the  bonds  deeper  into  his 
own  flesh,  and  at  last  he  desisted,  his  head  falling  back  limply 
against  the  cold  wet  stone  of  the  wall. 

Outside  the  night  was  serene.  The  air  was  so  pure  and 
transparent  that  against  the  violet  depths  of  the  horizon  the 
shimmering  summits  of  the  distant  Apennines  were  visible 
like  everlasting  crystals.  Everywhere  was  the  silence  of 
sleep.  The  Provencals,  too,  seemed  to  have  succumbed  to  its 
spell.  Only  on  a  distant  altana  could  be  heard  the  mournful 
cries  of  a  mad  woman,  bewailing  the  loss  of  her  child :  it  per 
turbed  the  stillness  like  the  keening  of  a  bird  of  ill-omen.  At 
last  she,  too,  was  silent,  and  Francesco,  weary,  exhausted,  his 
eyelids  drooping,  his  arms  pinioned  behind  him,  his  head 
resting  against  the  damp,  cold  stone,  drifted  into  a  restless, 
uneasy  slumber.  He  heard  the  clock  in  the  castle  tower  strike 
the  hour  of  midnight,  answered  by  the  wailing  chimes  of  the 
bell  from  Sta.  Redegonda;  then  consciousness  left  him  and 
he  sank  into  the  arms  of  sleep. 

A  strange  dream  haunted  his  pillow  of  anguish. 

He  was  at  the  Witches'  Sabbat  at  Benevento.  The  moon 
shone  with  a  purple  lustre  on  a  dreary  heather.  The  meadow- 
grasses  rustled  softly  in  the  night  wind;  will-o'-the-wisps 
danced  round  old  tree-trunks  gleaming  with  rottenness,  while 

43 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

the   owl,   the   bittern,   the   goat-sucker  mourned  plaintively 
among  the  reeds. 

The  moon  was  suddenly  hidden  by  a  cloud.  Instead, 
torches  flared  with  flames  of  green  and  blue,  and  black  shapes 
interlacing  and  disentwining  began  to  emerge  from  the  denser 
gloom.  In  endless  thousands  they  came  —  from  Candia,  from 
the  isles  of  Greece,  from  the  Brocken,  from  Mirandola,  and 
from  the  town  of  Benevento ;  wheeling  and  spreading  over  the 
plain  like  the  withered  and  perishing  leaves  of  autumn,  driven 
by  an  unseen  gale.  And  in  their  midst  sat  the  great  He-Goat 
enthroned  upon  the  mountain. 

There  was  a  screeching  of  pipes  made  of  dead  men's  bones, 
the  drum  stretched  with  the  skin  of  the  hanged  was  beaten 
with  the  tail  of  a  wolf.  A  loathsome  stew,  not  seasoned  with 
salt,  was  brewing  in  a  vast  cauldron,  and  round  it  danced 
herds  of  toads  garbed  as  cardinals,  the  sacred  Host  in  then- 
claws. 

Long  wet  whiskers  like  those  of  a  walrus  now  swept  his 
neck;  a  thin  winding  tail  lashed  his  face;  he  stirred  uneasily 
where  his  head  had  fallen  against  the  cold  slimy  stone  of  the 
prison  walls;  yet  the  sleeper  did  not  wake.  And  the  dance 
whirled  around  him  like  a  howling  storm. 

Suddenly  petrifaction  fell  upon  the  assembly.  All  voices 
were  hushed,  all  movements  arrested.  From  the  black  throne 
hi  the  background  there  came  a  dull  roar  like  the  growl  of 
approaching  thunder,  and  the  assembly  fell  upon  their 
knees,  chanting  in  solemn  tones  the  ceremonial  of  the  Black 
Mass. 

The  sleeper  stirred  uneasily,  yet  deeper  grew  the  dream. 

When  the  last  sounds  had  died  away,  there  was  renewed 
stillness,  then  the  same  hoarse  voice  cried : 

"  Bring  hither  the  bride !     Bring  hither  the  bride !  " 

An  old  man,  patriarch  of  sorcerers,  nearly  bent  double  with 
age,  came  forward  with  shuffling  steps. 

44 


VISTAS 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  bride?  What  is  the  name  of  the 
bride?  " 

"  Ilaria  Caselli !    Ilaria  Caselli !  "  roared  the  great  voice. 

Hearing  the  pronouncement  of  her  name,  Francesco's  blood 
froze  in  his  veins. 

"Ilaria!  Ilaria!"  rang  the  cry  from  the  crowd.  "  Ave 
Arcisponsa  Ilaria !  " 

They  brought  her  forward,  though  she  would  have  fled. 
They  dragged  her  trembling  before  the  throne.  A  chill,  as  of 
death  smote  her;  she  would  have  closed  her  eyes,  but  some 
thing  caused  her  to  look  in  the  direction  where  Francesco  lay, 
unable  to  move,  unable  to  stir.  His  limbs  seemed  paralyzed; 
he  wanted  to  cry  out  to  her,  his  voice  failed  him.  Vainly  she 
called  to  him,  vainly  she  strained  eyes,  arms  and  body  towards 
hun.  He  tried  to  rise,  to  rush  to  her  aid,  to  rescue  her  from  the 
clutches  of  the  terrible  apparition  on  the  throne,  when  sud 
denly  the  goat-skin  fell  from  him  and  he  stood  revealed  to 
Francesco,  as  he  of  the  Leaden  Lamb,  his  green  eyes  devour 
ing  the  girlish  form  that  stood  trembling  before  him. 

Another  moment,  and  she  sank  lifeless  into  his  embrace. 

The  setting  moon  once  more  shone  out  from  behind  the 
clouds,  and  as  the  pallid  crimson  of  her  light  faded  behind 
the  world's  dark  rim,  there  came  from  the  distance  the  morn 
ing  cry  of  the  cock.  Slowly,  through  the  air,  came  the  sound 
of  a  bell,  and  at  this  sound  the  frightened  witches,  swarm 
after  swarm,  streamed  away  from  the  mountain.  He  of  the 
Leaden  Lamb  again  became  the  great  He-Goat,  and  sank 
lamentably  bleating  with  his  beautiful  victim  through  the 
earth,  leaving  a  stifling  stench  of  sulphur  behind.  - 

With  a  moan  of  intense  agony  Francesco  awoke.  His  head 
was  like  lead,  his  body  broken  with  weariness.  A  sharp  odor 
of  fog  greeted  his  nostrils.  He  looked  about  for  a  moment, 
unable  to  determine  where  he  was.  A  violent  jerk,  as  he 
tried  to  move  his  arms,  informed  him  of  his  condition,  and  with 

45 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

a  groan  he  sank  back,  striking  his  head  against  the  stone 
with  a  sharp  pang.  Again  he  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  still  haunted 
by  the  phantoms  of  the  Witches'  Sabbat.  Had  it  been  but  a 
dream  indeed?  Vivid  it  stood  before  his  soul,  and  out  of  the 
whole  ghostly  hubbub  the  pure  face  of  Ilaria  Caselli  shone 
white  as  marble  against  a  storm-cloud.  Then,  with  the  mem 
ory  of  her  he  loved  dearer  than  life,  with  the  memory  of  her 
whom  he  was  to  renounce  forever,  there  returned  the  con 
sciousness  of  his  impending  fate.  Would  she  ever  know  why 
he  had  not  returned,  —  and  knowing,  would  her  love  for  him 
endure? 

The  bell  of  Sta.  Redegonda  was  tolling  heavily  and  monoto 
nously.  Outside  some  one  was  knocking  insistently,  some 
one  who  had  already  knocked  more  than  once.  There  was  a 
brief  pause,  then  the  turning  of  a  key  in  the  lock  grated  un 
pleasantly  on  Francesco's  ear. 

As  the  door  of  his  prison  swung  back,  the  dull  morning 
light  fell  on  the  form  of  a  monk,  who  had  slowly  entered  in 
advance  of  some  five  or  six  men-at-arms,  but  paused  almost 
instantly,  as  if  looking  for  the  object  hi  quest  of  which  he  had 
come. 

The  import  of  the  monk's  presence  at  this  hour  was  not 
lost  upon  Francesco.  It  was  no  hideous  dream  then,  it  was 
terrible  reality;  he  was  to  die.  To  die  without  having  com 
mitted  a  crime,  without  an  offence  with  which  he  might  charge 
his  conscience ;  to  die  without  a  hearing,  —  without  a  trial. 
For  a  moment  all  that  could  render  death  terrible,  and  death 
in  the  form  in  which  he  was  to  meet  it,  most  terrible  of  all, 
rushed  through  his  mind.  The  love  of  life,  despite  the  gloomy 
future  it  held  out  to  him,  re-asserted  itself  and,  as  a  drowning 
man  sees  all  the  scenes  of  the  past  condensed  into  one  last 
conscious  moment,  so  before  Francesco's  inner  gaze  the 
pageant  of  his  childhood,  the  sunny  days  at  the  Court  of  Avel- 
lino  rushed  past,  as  in  the  fleeting  phantasmagoria  of  a  dream. 

46 


VISTAS 

An  hour  hence,  and  his  eyes  would  no  longer  gaze  upon  the 
scenes  once  dear  to  him  as  his  youth ;  —  he  would  have  fol 
lowed  him,  who  would  have  consigned  him  to  a  living  death; 
—  he  would  have  been  gathered  into  annihilation's  waste. 

The  monk  had  walked  up  slowly  to  the  human  heap  he  saw 
dimly  writhing  on  the  ground,  and,  bending  over  Francesco, 
exhorted  him  to  think  of  the  salvation  of  his  soul,  to  which 
end,  in  consideration  of  his  youth,  the  clemency  of  his  judge 
had  permitted  him  to  receive  the  last  rites  of  the  Church. 

At  the  sound  of  the  monk's  voice  Francesco  gave  a  start, 
but,  as  he  made  no  reply,  the  friar  bent  over  him  anew,  in 
an  endeavor  to  scan  the  features  of  one  so  obdurate  as  to 
refuse  his  ministrations. 

A  mutual  outcry  of  surprise  broke  the  intense  stillness. 
They  had  recognized  each  other,  the  monk  who  had  carried 
to  Gregorio  Villani  the  Pontiff's  conditional  absolution,  and 
the  youth  whom  that  decree  had  consigned  to  a  living 
death. 

To  the  monk's  amazed  question  as  to  the  cause  of  his  ter 
rible  plight,  Francesco  wearily  and  brokenly  replied  that  he 
knew  of  nothing.  He  had  been  insulted,  overpowered  and 
condemned. 

Turning  to  the  leader  of  the  Provencals,  the  friar  sternly 
plied  him  with  questions,  but  his  replies  seemed  far  from 
satisfying,  for  the  monk  demanded  to  be  conducted  straight 
way  to  their  master.  Francesco  heard  them  scurry  from  his 
prison,  after  securing  the  door,  and,  exhausted  from  his  mental 
and  bodily  sufferings,  his  limbs  aching  as  in  the  throes  of 
a  fever,  he  fell  back  against  the  damp  stone  and  swooned. 

When  he  waked,  he  found  himself  on  a  bed  in  a  chamber, 
the  only  window  of  which  opened  on  to  a  courtyard.  The  sun 
was  riding  high  in  the  heavens  and  his  beams,  falling  aslant 
on  the  opposite  wall,  exercised  such  a  magical  effect  on  the 
awakened  sleeper,  that  he  sat  bolt  upright  on  his  couch  and, 

47 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

turning  to  the  friar  at  his  bedside,  demanded  to  know  where 
he  was. 

The  friar  enjoined  him  to  be  silent  and  arose,  to  fetch  a 
repast,  but  when  he  found  that  Francesco's  restlessness  was 
not  likely  to  be  assuaged  by  this  method,  he  slowly  and  cau 
tiously  informed  him  of  the  events  which  had  transpired,  since 
he  had  visited  him  in  his  cell,  to  accompany  him,  on  what  was 
to  have  been,  his  last  walk  on  earth. 

Dwelling  on  the  probable  causes  leading  to  his  summary 
condemnation,  the  monk  hinted  at  rumors,  that  Conradino, 
son  of  Emperor  Conrad  IV,  had  crossed  the  Alps  in  armed 
descent  upon  Italy,  to  wrest  the  lands  of  Manfred  from  An- 
jou's  grasp.  He  further  hinted  at  a  conspiracy  afoot  among 
the  Northern  Italian  Ghibellines,  to  rescue  from  her  prison 
in  Castel  del  Ovo,  where  she  had  been  confined  since  the  fatal 
battle  of  Benevento,  the  luckless  Helena,  Manfred's  Queen. 
A  fatal  resemblance  to  one,  known  to  have  been  entrusted 
with  a  similar  task,  had  caused  the  swift  issuance  of  the 
death-warrant  on  the  part  of  Anjou's  procurator,  a  sentence 
which  no  denial  on  his  part  would  have  suspended  or  an 
nulled,  as,  incensed  at  Francesco's  bearing  and  demeanor,  he 
of  the  Leaden  Lamb  had  remorselessly  consigned  him  to  his 
fate.  And,  but  for  his  timely  arrival  and  speedy  intervention, 
and  the  vigorous  protests  with  which  the  monk  supported  his 
claim  of  Francesco's  innocence,  the  latter's  fate  would  have 
been  hopelessly  sealed. 

Francesco,  partaking  of  the  viands  the  monk  had  placed 
before  him,  listened  attentively,  while  the  friar  assisted  him, 
for  as  yet  he  could  barely  make  use  of  his  arms  and  hands, 
cut  and  bruised  as  they  were  from  the  cords  of  the  Provencals. 

The  abuse  and  the  insults  to  which  he  had  been  subjected 
since  his  arrival  at  Benevento,  and  the  dire  peril  from  which 
he  had  so  narrowly  escaped,  had  exasperated  Francesco  to  a 
degree,  that  he  was  trembling  in  every  limb  with  the  memory 

48 


VISTAS 

of  the  outrage,  and  he  vowed  a  heavy  reckoning  against  the 
fiend,  who,  unheard  and  untried,  would  have  sent  him  to  an 
ignominious  death.  Thereupon  the  friar  informed  him,  that 
the  Provencals  had  departed  shortly  after  he  had  been  re 
leased  from  his  prison,  and  exhausted,  Francesco  fell  back 
among  the  cushions  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  slumber,  while 
the  friar  resumed  his  office  of  watchfulness  by  his  bedside. 

He  awoke  strengthened,  and,  save  for  the  bruises  testify 
ing  to  his  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the  Provencals,  his  splendid 
youth  swiftly  re-asserted  itself.  It  suffered  him  no  longer 
within  the  ominous  confines  of  the  Witches'  City. 

Heedless  of  the  friar's  protests,  who  declared  that  he  was 
not  strong  enough  to  continue  his  journey,  he  summoned  the 
Calabrian  landlord  whose  deferential  demeanor,  when  he 
entered  Francesco's  presence,  was  at  marked  variance  with 
his  conduct  on  the  previous  night. 

After  having  paid  his  reckoning  and  secured  his  steed, 
Francesco  thanked  the  friar  for  his  intervention  on  his  behalf, 
then,  with  some  difficulty,  he  mounted  and  rode  out  of  the 
gates  of  Benevento,  without  as  much  as  looking  back  with  a 
single  glance  upon  the  city's  ominous  walls. 


49 


CHAPTER  IV 


PROSERPINA 

RANCESCO  arrived  at  Avel- 
lino  at  dusk.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  castle  courtyard  was 
comparatively  deserted.  Only 
two  bow-men  guarded  the  low 
ered  drawbridge,  and  they  paid 
little  heed  to  the  familiar  form 
of  the  youth  as  he  slowly  rode 
through  the  gate. 

Throwing  the  reins  of  his 
steed  to  an  attendant,  Francesco  dismounted  and  entered  the 
castle,  undecided  what  to  do  first.  Seeing  a  page  lounging  in 
the  hallway,  he  inquired  if  the  Viceroy  was  in  his  apartments. 
"  He  returned  from  the  falcon  hunt  at  dusk  and  has  re 
tired,"  came  the  response. 

"  Go,  ask  him  if  he  will  receive  me,"  Francesco  entreated, 
heavy-hearted. 

The  page  bowed  and  ran  up  the  winding  stairway,  leaving 
Francesco  to  wait  hi  the  hall  below. 
Presently  he  returned. 

"  The  serving-man  in  my  lord's  antechamber  has  orders 
that  my  lord  is  to  be  disturbed  by  no  one,  since  he  is  preparing 
for  his  departure  on  the  morrow  —  " 
"  For  his  departure?  " 

The  page  eyed  Francesco  curiously,  as  if  he  wondered  at 
his  ignorance  of  that  which  was  on  the  lips  of  all  the  court. 
"  You  have  not  heard?  " 
"  I  have  just  returned  to  Avellino,  —  from  a  mission,"  he 

50 


PROSERPINA 

replied,  avoiding  the  inquisitive  gaze  he  knew  to  be  upon 
him. 

"  Then  you  know  not  that  King  Conradino  has  crossed  the 
Alps?  The  court  departs  on  the  morrow  to  join  him  before  the 
walls  of  Pavia!  " 

Francesco's  hand  had  gene  to  his  head. 

"  Conradino  has  crossed  the  Alps?  "  he  spoke  as  out  of  the 
depths  of  a  dream. 

"  I  will  see  the  Viceroy  on  the  morrow!  " 

Leaving  the  page  to  gaze  after  him  in  strange  wonderment, 
Francesco  went  slowly  towards  the  stairs.  He  shrank  un 
speakably  from  explanations  and  scenes  of  farewell.  At  the 
idea  of  pity  and  amazement  which  his  fate  might  call  up,  he 
fairly  shuddered.  Perhaps  there  might  be  even  sneers  from 
his  companions.  And,  by  the  time  he  had  reached  his  own 
chamber,  he  was  debating  the  possibility  of  departing  as  if 
for  a  journey  with  excuses  to  none  save  his  liege  lord,  the 
Viceroy  of  Apulia. 

Upon  a  wooden  settle  in  his  chamber,  with  the  moonbeams 
pouring  down  from  the  window  above  it,  he  seated  himself,  and 
his  heart  beat  up  in  his  throat. 

If  it  were  true!  If  the  ecstatic  dream  of  his  life  might  be 
realized!  If  face  to  face  he  might  meet  Conradino,  the  im 
perial  youth,  the  rightful  heir  and  ruler  of  these  enchant 
ing  Southlands  which  smarted  under  Anjou's  insufferable 
yoke! 

How  often  had  that  fair-haired  youth,  gazing  with  longing 
eyes  towards  the  Land  of  Manfred  from  the  ramparts  of  his 
castle  in  the  distant  Tyrol,  been  the  topic  of  converse  at  Avel- 
lino.  His  very  name  had  kindled  a  holy  flame  in  every  heart. 
At  his  beck,  the  beck  of  the  last  of  the  Hohenstauffen,  Ghibel- 
line  Italy  would  fly  to  arms  as  one  man.  Had  the  hour  come  at 
last? 

A  cold  hand  suddenly  clutched  his  heart. 

51 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

What  was  it  to  him?  What  was  anything  to  him  now?  What 
right  had  he  to  enter  the  lists  of  those  who  would  flock  to 
the  banners  of  the  imperial  youth?  Had  he  not,  from  the  day 
of  his  birth,  forfeited  the  right  to  live  and  to  act  according 
to  the  dictates  of  his  own  heart?  While  they  fought  he  must 
look  on,  bound  foot  and  hand,  an  enemy  to  the  cause  which 
was  his  cause.  An  involuntary  groan  broke  from  his  lips. 

Too  late  —  too  late! 

He  arose,  and,  opening  a  chest  in  the  wall  of  his  chamber, 
Francesco  took  from  it  a  faded  flower  wrapped  hi  its  now  dry 
cloth.  The  former  scarlet  glory  was  gone,  the  petals  were 
purple  and  old.  He  recalled  the  joy  with  which  he  had  re 
ceived  it.  A  week  ago  he  would  have  proclaimed  it  to  all  the 
world.  Now  the  rose  and  his  life  were  alike.  Now  he  was 
conscious  only  of  a  sickening,  benumbing  bitterness  of  spirit, 
as  he  laid  the  faded  flower  tenderly  into  its  former  place. 
Then,  lighting  a  cresset  lantern  in  a  niche  in  the  wall,  he  turned 
away  to  look  through  his  possessions,  to  pack  what  little  he 
might  take  with  him  on  the  morrow.  And  the  first  necessity 
which  came  to  his  hand  was  a  small,  sharp,  jewel-hilted 
dagger,  —  Ilaria's  gift. 

From  without  the  encircling  gardens  of  the  castle  there  came 
strange  sounds  of  laughter  and  merriment  which  struck 
Francesco  with  a  deeper  pang.  For  a  time  he  resumed  his 
seat  and,  with  hands  clasped  round  his  knees,  stared  in  immo 
bile  despair  into  the  darkness.  Eventually,  the  oppression 
of  his  mind  becoming  well-nigh  unbearable,  and,  knowing 
that  sleep  would  not  come  to  him  in  his  present  overwrought 
state,  Francesco  arose  and  strayed  out  into  the  dimly  lighted 
corridor,  until  he  emerged  on  a  terrace,  whence  a  flight  of 
broad  marble  stairs  conducted  to  the  rose-garden  below. 
Beyond,  a  pile  of  gray  buildings,  rising  among  thickly  wooded 
hills,  was  barely  discernible  in  the  misty  moonlight.  A  faint 
breeze,  blowing  up  from  the  gardens,  bathed  him  in  the  fra- 

52 


PROSERPINA 

grance  of  roses.  He  shuddered.  From  below  where  he 
stood  came  the  sound  of  laughing  voices. 

Francesco  peered  down  eagerly  into  the  rose-garden,  girdled 
by  the  wall  of  the  terrace,  on  the  summit  of  which  he  stood. 
The  bushes  were  heavy  with  blossoms ;  they  drooped  over  the 
white  sand-strewn  walk,  even  beneath  the  occasional  shadow 
of  a  slender  cypress  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  violet  of  the 
night-sky.  They  clambered  up  the  sides  of  the  fortress  villa, 
and  mingled  with  the  ivy  on  the  opposite  sweep  of  the  wall.: 

The  garden  was  flooded  with  that  golden  moonlight  which 
creates  in  the  beholder  the  illusion  of  unreality;  for  not  hi 
the  midnight  dark,  but  where  radiance  is  warmest  and  in- 
tensest,  are  spirits  most  naturally  expected  by  the  sensitive 
mind. 

Where  the  light  of  the  moon  was  most  translucent,  there 
stood  a  man  in  the  mythical  garb  of  Hermes,  catching  therein 
the  full  moon  glamour. 

As  he  looked  up  he  met  the  gaze  of  Francesco. 

"  Come  down,  Francesco,"  he  cried  in  comical  despair. 
"  Despite  my  winged  feet  I  cannot  pull  the  car  of  Amor,  and 
he  refuses  to  use  his  wings !  " 

A  strange  light  leaped  into  Francesco's  eyes. 

"  Why  not  summon  Pluto,  God  of  the  Underworld?  " 

"  He  declines  to  waive  his  right  to  march  beside  Proser 
pina,  and  you  know  the  Frangipani  is  quite  capable  of  making 
a  quarrel  out  of  a  revel." 

"  And  who  is  Proserpina?  " 

"Ilaria  Caselli." 

"  Who  calls  me?  "  a  voice  at  this  moment  spoke  from  the 
thicket,  and  ere  either  could  answer  a  girlish  figure  stepped 
into  the  moonlight,  paused  and  looked  in  amaze  at  Francesco. 

The  latter  exchanged  a  few  words  with  his  companion  who 
bowed  and  withdrew. 

Slowly  she  moved  towards  the  terrace;  lithe  and  languid, 

53 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

she  seemed  herself  the  Queen  of  Blossoms,  her  dusky  hair, 
flower-crowned,  enveloped  in  rainbow  bloom. 

"Francesco!  "  she  called,  surprise  and  appeal  in  her  tone. 
"  I  knew  not  you  were  here !  Come  down!  " 

"  Yes,  —  Ilaria,"  he  said,  yet  stood  at  gaze  and  made  no 
sign  to  stir.  The  light  in  his  eyes  had  died.  She  stood  below 
him,  hah*  in  the  light,  half  in  the  shadow,  her  neck  and 
throat  bare,  her  arms  in  tight  sleeves  of  flower-embroidered 
gauze. 

"Come  down!"  she  called  more  imperiously.  "Why  do 
you  delay?  " 

He  moved  round  the  wall  to  the  descending  stair  and  pres 
ently  was  by  her  side. 

"  When  did  you  return?  "  she  asked,  extending  her  hands 
to  him. 

He  took  them,  pressed  them  fervently  in  his  own,  then, 
bending  over  them,  kissed  them  passionately. 

"  Within  the  hour,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  hi  hers. 

"  And  your  mission?  " 

"  It  is  accomplished !  " 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  and  saw  not  the  look  of  anguish 
that  passed  over  his  face.  "  I  came  to  ask  you,"  her  bosom  was 
heaving  strangely,  "  to  be  near  me  when  the  pageant  breaks. 
I  am  afraid  of  Raniero  Frangipani !  " 

"  Yet  you  chose  the  role  of  Proserpina,  knowing  —  "  He 
broke  off,  a  shiver  of  constraint  in  his  voice. 

"  Who  told  you?  " 

He  pointed  in  the  direction  where  his  informant  had  dis 
appeared. 

"  Messer  Gualtiero!  You  knew,"  he  then  continued  slowly, 
"  that  Raniero  would  be  your  companion  in  the  pageant!  " 

Ilaria  pouted. 

"  Mine  is  the  part  of  Lady  of  Sorrows  —  Queen  of  the  Un 
derworld  ! " 

54 


PROSERPINA 

"  And  the  Frangipani's  society  is  the  price  you  pay  for  your 
high  estate." 

She  looked  at  him,  then  dropped  her  eyelids  on  a  sudden. 

"  Why  should  I  fear,  when  you  are  by?  " 

Something  clutched  at  Francesco's  throat. 

"  I  may  not  always  be  near  you !  " 

She  arched  her  eyebrows. 

"  Then  I  must  look  for  another  protector !  "  she  retorted 
with  a  shrug. 

Noting  the  pain  her  words  gave  him,  she  added  more  softly : 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  again?  " 

"  You  shrink  from  the  Frangipani,"  he  replied,  ignoring  her 
question.    "  Has  he  insulted  you?    Is  he  your  enemy?  " 

"  It  is  not  because  he  is  an  enemy,  but  rather  the  opposite, 
that  I  would  avoid  Raniero  Frangipani,"  was  her  low  reply. 

All  the  color  had  faded  from  Francesco's  lips. 

"  You  mean  —  "  the  words  died  in  the  utterance. 

"  He  wooes  me!  "  she  said  low. 

A  fierce  light  leaped  into  Francesco's  eyes.    She  laid  a  tran 
quillizing  finger  on  his  arm. 

"  You  have  no  cause  for  wrath,  that  I  can  see !  And  yet  I 
would  rather  have  you  near  than  far.  The  Frangipani  is  filled 
with  violent  passions.  He  wooes  me  violently.  Since  you 
left  Avellino,"  she  added  with  seeming  reluctance,  "  he  seems 
to  have  taken  new  courage,  and  —  some  unexplained  um 
brage  at  —  I  know  not  what !  '  Who  is  this  Francesco  Vil- 
lani?  '  he  said  to  me  and  his  eyes  glowered.  '  What  is  his 
ancestry?  What  should  entitle  him  to  your  regard?  '  Again 
and  again  he  dwelled  on  this  point,  —  Francesco,  —  you 
know  I  love  you,  —  and  I  care  not,  —  so  you  love  me,  —  but 
you  will  tell  me,  —  that  I  may  silence  him,  —  Francesco,  — 
will  you  not?  " 

A  shadow  as  from  some  unseen  cloud  swept  over  his  face. 

"  I  shall  tell  him  myself,  —  and  in  your  presence." 

55 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  You  will  not  quarrel?  "  she  said  anxiously,  holding  out  her 
hands  to  him. 

He  clasped  the  soft  white  fingers  fiercely  in  his  own,  then 
pressed  them  to  his  throbbing  heart.  In  the  distance  voices 
were  heard  calling,  clamoring. 

For  some  moments  they  gazed  at  each  other  in  silence,  then 
she  said: 

"  They  are  calling  me !  I  must  return  to  my  task  of  sor 
row  ! " 

"  Strange  words  for  a  queen  —  "he  said  with  an  attempt 
at  merriment. 

"  Queen  of  the  Shades,"  she  replied.  "  And  I  long  for  life 
—  life  —  life !  With  all  it  has  to  give,  with  all  it  can  bestow !  " 

A  strange,  witch-like  fire  had  leaped  into  her  eyes.  Her 
lips,  thirstily  ajar,  revealed  two  rows  of  white  even  teeth,  and 
hi  that  moment  she  looked  so  alluringly  beautiful,  that  Fran 
cesco  in  a  fever  of  passion  threw  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed 
her  passionately  again  and  again,  with  moist,  hungry  lips. 

"  Will  you  not  come?  "  she  whispered,  after  having  utterly 
abandoned  herself  to  his  embrace. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  no  part  in  this !    I  will  await  you  here !  " 

The  voices  sounded  nearer.  Now  could  be  distinguished 
the  cry:  "  Proserpina  —  Proserpina!  " 

She  turned  reluctantly,  with  a  last  glance  at  him,  and 
hastened  back  towards  the  revels. 

Francesco  watched  the  slender,  girlish  form,  until  she  had 
mingled  with  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Then,  with  a  low  cry 
of  anguish,  he  leaned  against  the  balustrade  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  — 

And  now  the  pageant  began  to  gather  in  the  garden,  a 
pageant  of  Love  in  a  guise  such  as  might  have  been  conceived 
by  Petrarca,  —  a  mediaeval  divertissement,  such  as  the  courts 
of  thirteenth  century  Italy  were  wont  to  delight  in.  And 

56 


PROSERPINA 

Francesco,  slowly  waking  from  a  disordered  reverie,  leaned 
over  the  balustrade,  straining  his  gaze  towards  the  clearing, 
whence  peals  of  laughter  and  music  of  citherns  and  cymbals 
heralded  the  approach  of  a  procession,  which  in  point  of  fan 
tasticality  did  indeed  honor  to  those  who  had  contrived  it. 

It  was  a  pageant  of  the  Gods,  the  outgrowth  and  conception 
of  a  mind,  not  yet  set  adrift  by  the  speculative  theory  and 
philosophy  of  a  Dante  or  Petrarca,  a  mind  still  hovering  be 
tween  Roman  austerity  and  Hellenic  mystery. 

As  the  procession  emerged  from  the  inner  courtyard,  a  level 
ray  of  moonlight  fell  upon  attires  wherein  seemed  blended  the 
gayest  fantasy  of  all  times:  Juno  frowning  jealously  on  the 
bowed  figure  of  her  Lord;  Mars  and  Venus,  and  Pluto,  his 
dark  face  rising  over  folds  of  sombre  purple,  beside  the  magi 
cally  fair  Proserpina.  After  these  there  came  groups  of  lan 
guid  lovers  of  all  ages ;  enchanters  and  victims :  Orpheus  and 
Eurydice,  Jason  and  Medea,  Lancelot  and  Guinevere,  Tris 
tram  and  Iseult.  Bound  with  great  ropes  of  blossom  or  chains 
of  tinsel,  they  moved  sadly,  crushed  and  sighing,  behind  the 
chariot  of  the  King  of  Sighs.  And  he,  the  dismal  ruler,  seemed 
the  personified  memory  of  a  figure  in  the  lower  church  at 
Assisi,  driven  shrinking  towards  the  pit  by  Giotto's  grave 
angels  of  penance. 

Round  that  chariot  gathered  fantastic  shapes,  clad  hi  dim, 
floating  garments,  their  faces  concealed  by  gray  masks  on 
which  the  unknown  artist  had  stamped  an  expression,  now 
of  wild  dismay,  now  of  grinning  triumph,  a  presage,  it  would 
seem,  of  the  Dreams  and  Errors,  and  the  Wan  Delusions, 
whom  Petrarca  conceived  to  be  the  closest  companions  of  the 
lord  of  the  mortal  race. 

Exclamations  of  delight  from  the  balconies  of  the  castle, 
where  dusky  groups  of  spectators  were  dimly  discernible, 
broke  the  dream  stillness  of  the  night. 

From  his  vantage  point  on  the  terrace  Francesco's  burning 

57 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

gaze,  riveted  on  the  pageant,  followed  the  graceful  swaying 
form  of  Proserpina  with  the  pale  face  and  lustrous  eyes  up 
turned  to  him,  while  the  procession  circled  round  the  terrace, 
and  a  Wan  Delusion,  following  directly  in  her  wake,  flung  up 
her  shadowy  arms  and  groaned. 

For  these  mediaeval  folk  threw  themselves  into  the  pageant 
with  the  dramatic  impulse  native  to  place  and  time.  Incited 
by  the  tragedy  of  Benevento,  still  quivering  through  men's 
memory,  and  the  apprehension  of  future  clouded  horizons, 
this  occasion  probably  meant  to  many  of  them,  as  to  Ilaria 
Caselli,  the  rejection  rather  than  the  assumption  of  a  disguise, 
the  free  expression  through  the  imaginative  form,  so  natural 
to  them,  of  the  allegiance  to  passion  in  which  their  life  was 
passed.  Each  acting  his  or  her  part,  they  moved  slowly 
through  the  garden,  Orpheus  gazing  back  wildly  in  search  of 
Eurydice,  Circe  chanting  low  spells,  Tristram  touching  his 
harp  strings,  his  eyes  upon  Iseult,  and  all  at  will  sighing  and 
moaning  and  pointing  in  pathetic  despair  to  the  chains  that 
bound  them,  and  the  arrows  that  transfixed. 

Presently  they  gathered  round  a  fountain,  which,  in  the 
centre  of  a  rose-garden,  sent  up  its  iridescent  spray  in  the 
silver  moonlight,  and  Tristram,  stepping  to  the  side  of  it, 
began  to  sing  a  Canzona,  almost  like  a  church  chant,  artificially 
lovely  in  the  intermingling  of  the  imagery  of  Night  and  of  the 
Dawn.  Orpheus  and  Circe  followed  with  a  Canzona  which 
struck  Francesco's  ear  with  music  new,  yet  charged  with 
echoes  of  much  that  he  had  suffered  during  the  past  eventful 
days. 

With  the  cadenza  of  the  last  stanzas  the  glow  of  torches 
had  faded,  and  the  revellers  moved  towards  the  opposite  wall, 
whence  Francesco  was  watching  one  by  one,  as  they  disap 
peared  within  a  low  doorway,  leading  to  an  inner  stair.  As 
they  emerged  upon  the  summit  each  reveller  bore  a  lighted 
torch  which  hardly  quivered  in  the  still,  balmy  air  of  the  sum- 

58 


PROSERPINA 

mer  night.  A  moment's  confusion,  and  the  entire  pageant 
began  to  advance  in  single  file  against  the  dusky  night-sky  in 
which  the  moon,  now  soaring  high  above  the  trees,  gleamed 
with  a  strange  lustre.  Above  the  garden  they  moved  as 
above  the  far  dim  world,  not  earthly  men  and  women  in 
seeming,  but  phantoms  of  the  air.  The  car  of  Pluto  was 
illumined  from  within,  and  the  red  light  struck  with  almost 
ghostly  effect  the  gray  faces  and  garments  of  the  Delusions. 
The  actors  were  hushed  into  silence  by  the  unearthly  beauty 
of  the  scene. 

Francesco,  from  across  the  garden,  watched  with  eyes  heavy 
and  weary,  the  Triumph  of  the  Gods.  As  Proserpina  came  in 
sight,  her  pale  face  flashed  on  him  by  the  light  of  the  torches 
carried  by  Pluto.  It  was  strangely  alluring  in  its  marble  pallor, 
the  dusky  hair  wreathed  with  jasmine  stars.  Francesco  was 
seized  in  the  grip  of  sudden  terror.  The  lust  of  the  flesh, 
the  lust  of  the  eyes  were  passing  visibly  before  him  under  the 
violet  night-sky.  In  a  mad,  delirious  impulse,  he  thrust  out 
his  arm,  the  moonlight  striking  full  upon  his  face.  The  revellers 
paused  for  an  instant,  then  extended  their  arms  with  wel 
coming  shouts.  Proserpina,  as  she  came  near,  threw  a 
flowery  chain  round  his  neck.  Breathless,  dazed,  Francesco 
saw  them  move  away,  the  blood  throbbing  wildly  in  his  tem 
ples. 

The  moon  had  passed  her  zenith  when  the  revellers,  having 
twice  circled  the  walls,  descended  once  more  into  the  garden 
and  dispersed,  each  at  his  or  her  own  will,  through  the  de 
mesne.  Terraces  illumined  by  torch-light,  afforded  ample 
opportunity  for  wandering,  and  the  ilex-wood  which  covered 
the  castle  hill,  was  a  lure  for  the  more  venturesome.  The 
castle  itself  had  flung  wide  its  portals,  and  a  collation  was 
being  served  within  until  a  late  hour.  The  gay  company  that 
so  recently  traversed  the  gardens  had  swiftly  flown  from  one 
haunt  of  pleasure  to  the  other.  Most  of  the  participants  in 

59 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

the  pageant,  however,  preferred  to  remain  out-doors.  Proser 
pina,  Goddess  of  the  Underworld,  and  the  Delusions  seemed 
still  to  extend  their  dreamy  sway  over  the  whole  company. 
Day-light  selves  had  disappeared,  carrying  with  them  any 
teasing  pricks  of  conscience,  and  the  greater  number  of  the 
maskers  continued  through  the  night  to  play  their  parts  with 
out  reserve. 

When  Francesco  had  ensconced  himself  on  the  terrace  to 
witness  the  revels,  he  had  given  no  thought  to  the  continua 
tion  of  the  same.  He  wandered  through  the  labyrinthine 
walks  with  troubled  mind,  every  now  and  then  shrinking,  a 
listener  both  unwilling  and  unwelcome,  from  sounds  that 
assailed  his  ear  from  rose-bower  and  cypress-wall.  Yet  the 
setting  of  beauty  rendered  his  repugnance  languid.  He  seemed 
to  feel  a  detaining  hand  upon  him  that  would  not  let  him  escape. 
Life  had  ever  been,  even  hi  his  happiest  moods,  as  a  masque, 
lived  hi  a  dream.  But  to-night  the  masque  had  seemed  very 
real.  The  weird  loveliness  of  the  pageant  had  enthralled  his 
soul,  had  brought  home  to  him  with  new  and  intense  poignancy 
the  dark  fate  which  lurked  hi  the  background.  Aimlessly  he 
strolled  on,  aimlessly  he  lost  himself  in  the  labyrinthine  maze, 
hoping,  yet  fearing,  to  meet  Ilaria  Caselli. 

He  had  noted  now  and  again  a  girlish  figure  flitting  around 
his  pathway,  in  an  open  space,  where  a  murmuring  water 
flowed.  It  came  out  into  the  starlight  and  he  recognized  White 
Oenone. 

She  swayed  towards  him  timidly. 

"  Though  Paris  be  lost  to  me,  are  there  not  other  shepherds 
in  the  glades  of  Ida?  " 

Her  tones  blended  with  the  murmur  of  the  stream. 

The  tumult  of  sense  swept  over  him.  He  saw  her  white 
smiling  face  so  close  to  his,  in  the  faint  light  of  the  moon  her 
hair  shone  golden.  Then  he  gave  a  start  and  thought  of 
Ilaria,  and  of  her  strange  request. 

60 


PROSERPINA 

"  Ay  —  but  thy  Paris  will  return,  fair  nymph,"  he  replied 
courteously.  "  For  the  Greek  knights  have  won  Troy-Town 
at  last,  and  the  false  witch  who  lured  him  from  thy  side,  has 
sailed  for  Argos." 

He  turned  away,  noting  the  shade  of  disappointment  in  her 
face.  His  steps  were  aimless  no  longer.  Ilaria  was  not  in 
the  rose-garden,  nor  would  he  find  her  on  the  terraces  through 
which  the  flickering  torch-light  gleamed.  He  hastened  on 
ward  towards  the  ilex-wood  which  bordered  on  one  side  close 
to  the  castle.  In  the  dense  shadow  two  dim  figures  stood. 
He  knew  without  seeing  that  one  was  Ilaria. 

"Ilaria!"  he  called. 

She  started,  took  a  step  towards  him,  then  paused. 

On  her  face  he  noted  the  same  dazed,  half-bewildered  look 
which  he  had  discovered  thereon  in  the  pageant. 

"Ilaria!"  he  called  once  more.  His  voice  had  still  the 
same  purity  of  tone  as  in  his  childhood. 

She  came  to  him  slowly,  holding  out  both  hands. 

"  Take  me  away!  "  she  whispered  with  a  shudder. 

Then,  from  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  wood,  there  stepped 
a  form  of  remarkable  elegance,  advancing  with  the  graceful, 
but  assumed,  demeanor  of  a  man  immured  in  his  own  conceit. 
He  was  tall,  with  a  well-poised  head  of  the  purely  Latin  type. 
The  face  was  long,  but  unusually  handsome;  of  olive  hue 
with  regular  features,  that  revealed  many  generations  of 
aristocratic  ancestry.  The  nostrils  were  delicately  chiselled, 
the  eyebrows  high  and  narrow,  the  thin,  cynical  lips  revealed 
the  sensualist.  There  was  nothing  in  the  countenance  of 
Raniero  Frangipani  to  dismay  the  observer,  until  one  looked 
at  the  eyes.  They  were  narrow  and  intensely  black,  filled  with 
a  baleful  brilliance  that  feared  no  man,  yet  revealed  to  view 
a  soul  utterly  depraved. 

The  Frangipani  having  changed  his  masque,  was  clothed 
in  the  richest  apparel  of  the  time.  Long  hose  of  crimson  silk 

61 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

encased  the  legs,  rising  from  soft  shoes  of  the  same  color. 
A  coat  of  black  silk,  embroidered  with  golden  flowers,  and 
the  Broken  Loaf,  the  emblem  of  his  house,  was  confined  at 
the  waist  with  a  golden  belt,  to  which  was  affixed  a  poniard 
with  an  exquisitely  jewelled  hilt.  He  advanced  with  the  grace 
ful  yet  arrogant  swing  of  the  bred  courtier,  yet  his  handsome 
face  was  not  pleasant  to  behold,  as  he  turned  to  Francesco 
with  an  insolent  air: 

"  I  think,  Messer  Villani,  you  will  find  the  rose-garden  more 
agreeable  than  the  wood !  " 

Francesco  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"  I  am  here  at  the  request  of  Madonna  Ilaria,"  he  replied 
quietly. 

"  Indeed !  "  sneered  the  Frangipani,  advancing  a  step  closer. 
"  Madonna  Ilaria  did  not  hint  that  she  preferred  the  society 
of  a  marplot  to  that  of  a  Frangipani!  " 

Francesco  made  an  impetuous  step  forward,  feeling  for  his 
dagger.  But  Ilaria  caught  his  arm  and  clung  to  it.  The  two 
were  faintly  visible  in  the  starlight. 

The  Frangipani  regarded  them  for  a  moment  with  a  con 
temptuous  smile. 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,"  he  then  turned  with  an  ironical 
bow  to  the  girl.  "  I  feared  Messer  Villani  would  be  too  fatigued 
after  his  journey  in  quest  of  an  ancestor!  " 

Francesco  had  turned  pale  at  this  palpable  insult.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  the  Frangipani  had  spied  upon  him  for 
reasons  not  difficult  to  surmise.  But  ere  he  could  carry  out 
his  intent,  but  too  plainly  revealed  in  his  set  features,  Ilaria 
had  interposed  herself  between  the  two. 

"  Leave  us !  "  she  turned  to  the  Frangipani  with  a  scorn  hi 
her  voice  that  caused  the  latter  to  start,  while  she  clung  to 
Francesco's  arm,  hardly  less  pale  than  he. 

Raniero  Frangipani  regarded  them  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
tapped  with  his  foot,  like  one  to  whom  a  new  idea  has  come, 

62 


V 

1 


PROSERPINA 

then  with  a  long  low  sound,  very  much  like  a  snarl,  he  vanished 
in  the  gloom. 

Francesco  turned  to  the  girl  who  still  clung  to  him.  She 
knew  the  look  on  his  face,  but  there  was  in  it  an  expression 
she  had  never  seen  before,  penetrating,  sorrowful,  crushed. 
His  breath  came  and  went  in  gasps,  yet  he  spoke  not. 

"  Francesco,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  while  she  anxiously 
watched  the  play  of  light  and  shadow  on  his  face.  "  Listen! 
Messer  Raniero  seems  to  bear  you  a  grudge.  Promise  me 
to  avoid  a  meeting  with  him!  He  has  said  much  to  me,  think 
ing  thereby  to  win  my  favor.  He  now  knows,  —  let  that  suf 
fice!" 

"  He  has  told  you  much?    What  has  he  told  you?  " 

"  You  have  not  told  me  what  took  you  away  so  suddenly!  " 

He  held  up  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"  A  secret  mission  of  the  Viceroy's,"  he  said  blushing,  as 
he  stammered  the  falsehood.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  avow  even  to  the  girl  he  loved  best  on  earth,  his  father's 
shame.  The  pain  of  life  could  not  be  made  less,  by  adding 
more  pain. 

"  Trust  me!  "  he  begged.  "  We  have  always  felt  together, 
—  I  have  never  deceived  you !  " 

"  Until  now!  "  her  voice  sounded  shrill  and  strained. 

"  No !  Ilaria,  no !  Were  it  mine  to  tell,  —  there  is  no  secret 
for  you  in  this  heart  of  mine.  But  the  matter  concerns  an 
other  !  Perhaps  —  in  time  —  " 

He  broke  off  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  crave  my  youth!  "  cried  Ilaria  unheeding.  "  My  youth, 
and  the  joy  of  life  which  comes  but  once.  If  one  will  not  give 
me  what  I  seek  —  I  look  elsewhere,  if  so  I  may!  "  Her  lips 
trembled.  "  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so?  "  she  continued  im 
patiently  after  an  instant's  pause.  "  Before  you  came  into 
the  wood  I  saw  your  eyes,  and  I  see  them  still  in  the  dark! 
What  was  the  object  of  that  mission?  " 

63 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

Francesco  drooped  his  head,  but  made  no  reply.  In  a  clover 
leaf  at  his  feet  a  dew-drop  mirrored  a  star,  breaking  the  light 
into  a  thousand  tiny  shafts. 

"  I  will  give  you  your  youth,"  he  spoke  at  last  in  a  low 
strained  voice  that  sounded  like  a  broken  sob. 

Ilaria  laid  her  hand  on  his  and  spoke  low.  Her  light  soft 
fingers  were  fevered. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  It  is  a  simple  matter!  " 

She  gazed  at  him  startled,  terrified.  Suddenly  she  threw 
her  arms  about  him. 

"  Forgive  me !    Forgive !  " 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  kissed  her  dark  eyes. 

Then  slowly  they  retraced  then*  steps  towards  the  castle. 

When  Francesco  reached  his  chamber,  the  moon  was  slowly 
smking  through  the  azure  night-sky. 

He  noted  it  not.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was  standing  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  void.  All  life  about  him  had  died.  And  he 
stood  there,  digging  his  own  grave,  and,  as  the  last  spade  of 
turf  flew  up,  the  stifling  night  of  annihilation  swallowed  up  the 
universe. 


64 


CHAPTER  V 


\VAVES    OF    DESTINY 


HEN  Francesco  waked  on  the 
following  morning,  the  June 
sun  touched  the  tree-tops 
which  bounded  the  western 
horizon  with  their  delicate 
feathery  twigs.  Throughout  the 
castle  of  Avellino  there  was  the 
hum  and  murmur  of  life.  An 
unusual  activity  prevailed;  the 
Apulian  court  was  preparing  to 
depart,  as  the  long  train  of  horses  and  jennets  drawn  up  in 
the  courtyard  indicated. 

Francesco  listened  to  the  dim  murmur  of  familiar  voices, 
and  the  echoes  of  laughter  which  reached  his  ears  as  he  stood 
contemplating  himself  undecidedly  in  a  steel  mirror  that  hung 
from  an  iron  hook  upon  his  bedroom  wall. 

Of  what  use  to  deck  himself  in  fine  raiment  for  the  last  time 
he  should  ever  wear  it?  Sackcloth  was  henceforth  to  be  his 
garment ;  —  what  matter  if  he  went  unkempt  on  the  last  day 
hi  the  home  he  loved? 

But  the  thought  of  the  part  he  wished  to  play,  came  back 
to  him.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  his  companions 
should  know  of  his  undoing.  Despair  is  concealed  more  easily 
for  an  hour  than  unrest.  And  so  Francesco  heaved  a  long 
heavy  sigh  and  went  to  the  great  carven  chest  wherein  he  kept 
his  apparel. 

Slowly,  with  the  demeanor  of  one  whose  heart  is  not  in 
what  he  does,  he  arrayed  himself  in  his  splendid  court  cos- 

65 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

tume,  as  if  preparing  to  share  the  gladsomeness  of  his  com 
panions. 

He  descended  into  the  courtyard  as  one  walking  in  a  dream, 
and  as  in  a  dream  his  ear  caught  the  sounds  of  laughter  and 
merriment,  such  as  had  not  resounded  in  the  Castle  of  Avel- 
lino  since  the  days  of  Emperor  Frederick  II. 

On  every  lip  were  the  glad  tidings:  Conradino  had  crossed 
the  Alps !  Conradino  was  about  to  descend  into  Italy  with  his 
iron  hosts  to  claim  his  heritage.  Like  an  Angel  of  Vengeance 
he  would  march  on  to  Rome,  where  the  arch-enemy  of  his 
house  sat  enthroned  in  the  chair  of  St.  Peter.  From  all  parts 
of  Italy  the  Ghibellines  were  flocking  to  the  banners  of  the 
golden-haired  son  of  Emperor  Conrad  IV,  —  Conradino,  as 
they  lovingly  called  him,  —  the  last  Hohenstauff en ! 

From  the  adjoining  gardens  there  came  sounds  of  joyous 
laughter;  the  music  of  citherns  and  lyres  rippled  enchant- 
ingly  on  the  soft  breeze  of  the  morning.  It  was  as  if  an  evil 
spell  had  been  lifted  from  the  land,  but  the  spell  had  caught 
one  who  could  not  shake  it  off,  as  with  stony  gaze  and  quivering 
lips  he  walked  along,  noting  the  preparations  for  events,  in 
which  he  was  to  have  no  further  share.  He  noted  it  not  that 
the  grooms  and  lackeys,  pages  and  squires  regarded  him  curi 
ously,  as  if  wondering  at  his  luxurious  attire,  so  little  in  keeping 
with  the  exigencies  of  a  tedious  journey.  Hardly  he  noted 
the  casual  greeting  of  a  companion  who  passed  hurriedly,  as  if 
bent  on  his  own  preparations.  After  rambling  aimlessly  through 
the  demesne,  he  bethought  himself  that  the  time  for  repast 
was  at  hand,  and  after  pausing  here  and  there,  as  if  to  con 
vince  himself  that  what  he  saw  was  not  the  phantom  of  a 
mocking  dream,  he  returned  to  the  castle,  his  heart  heavy 
with  the  weight  of  the  impending  hour. 

The  banqueting-hall  in  the  Castle  of  Avellino  presented  a 
busy  scene.  A  small  army  of  lackeys  and  pages  was  at  work 
preparing  a  repast,  the  last  the  court  was  to  partake  ere  the 

66 


WAVES    OF    DESTINY 

Viceroy  set  out.  They  were  to  start  at  dusk,  owing  to  the 
extreme  noon-day  heat  in  the  plains. 

One  great  board  stretched  down  the  centre  of  the  room, 
containing  places  enough  for  every  occupant  of  the  building. 

Presently  the  doors  leading  into  the  banqueting-hall  turned 
inward  and  a  throng  of  court  attendants  filed  into  the  dimly 
lighted  room.  These  were  followed  by  an  array  of  visiting 
mendicants,  who  never  failed  to  infest  any  noble  household, 
and  they  had  scarcely  grouped  themselves  standing  about  the 
board,  when  the  Viceroy,  arm  in  arm  with  Galvano  Lancia, 
entered  the  hall. 

These  two  seated  themselves  at  the  board  at  once,  watch 
ing  the  others  as  they  entered.  The  women  and  their  escorts, 
who  had  entered  laughing  and  chatting  among  themselves, 
grew  silent  as  they  beheld  the  Viceroy  already  seated.  One 
girl,  garbed  in  a  flowing  gown  of  sea-green  damask,  entered  the 
room  alone.  As  she  advanced  to  her  place,  after  the  pre 
scribed  courtesy  to  the  Viceroy,  her  dark  eyes  searchingly 
scanned  the  throng  of  pages.  Apparently  she  did  not  find 
among  them  the  one  she  sought. 

"  Donna  Ilaria  looks  for  her  errant  knight,"  whispered  Gal 
vano  Lancia  into  the  ear  of  Conrad  Capece. 

"  Has  not  Francesco  returned?  "  queried  the  Viceroy. 

"  I  hardly  expected  him  before  to-day,  ever  if  the  Grand 
Master's  illness  has  not  taken  a  fatal  turn." 

"  Here  are  the  monks!  " 

"  And  there  —  at  the  door  —  " 

Conrad  Capece  followed  the  direction  of  Lancia's  gaze. 

"Francesco!" — he  finished  with  a  gasp,  staring  bewil 
dered  at  the  youth's  dazzling  garb,  richer  even  than  the  Vice 
roy's. 

There  was  a  sudden  round  of  forbidden  whispering  among 
Francesco's  companions,  and  significant  glances  passed  be 
tween  many  at  the  expense  of  Ilaria  Caselli,  for  Francesco's 

67 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

entrance  had  been  indeed  destined  to  create  a  commotion 
among  the  members  of  the  Vice-regal  household. 

Conscious  to  the  full  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  Francesco 
paused  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway.  Then  he  advanced 
slowly  towards  the  seat  of  the  Viceroy,  a  bright  smile  on  his 
lips,  a  feeling  akin  to  death  freezing  his  heart.  The  grace 
remained  still  unspoken,  while  the  monks,  eager  as  their 
worldly  brethren,  turned  upon  their  stools  to  gaze  at  the  new 
comer. 

Francesco  was  clad  in  a  tunic  made  of  white  cloth,  heavily 
embroidered  with  gold,  slashed  up  the  sides  far  enough  to 
reveal  the  dusky  sheen  of  his  black  embroidered  hose.  His 
belt  was  of  black  and  gold,  and  the  dagger  it  held  was  hilted 
with  gleaming  jewels.  The  dark  hair  framed  a  face  as  white 
as  his  garb  and  the  feverish  lustre  of  the  deep  set  eyes  matched 
the  brilliancy  of  the  gems  in  his  belt. 

The  finishing  touch  to  Francesco's  curious  attire,  the  one 
which  gave  the  greatest  significance  to  his  appearance,  was 
that  which  appeared  to  link  him  in  some  way  to  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  the  hall.  It  was  a  faded  rose,  which  still 
seemed  to  cast  a  crimson  shadow  upon  the  gleaming  purity 
of  his  tunic,  the  rose  he  had  discarded  in  his  first  fit  of  despair, 
until  he  had  bethought  himself  of  a  better  course. 

Under  the  wondering  or  sneering  glances  of  all  these  eyes, 
Francesco,  seemingly  unabashed,  advanced  to  the  Viceroy's 
chair,  and,  bending  a  knee,  muttered  an  apology  for  his  delayed 
arrival. 

Count  Capece  bade  him  arise,  saying  audibly : 

"  In  truth,  Francesco,  you  shame  us  all  for  slovenliness  in 
dress.  Sit  you  here  by  my  side!  Your  companions  yonder 
have  brilliancy  enough  hi  their  midst.  You  shall  relieve  our 
soberness ! " 

With  an  amused  smile  Galvano  Lancia  made  room  between 
himself  and  the  Viceroy.  There  was  a  faint  color  in  the  youth's 

68 


WAVES    OF    DESTINY 

cheeks,  as  he  hastily  dropped  into  the  posture  for  grace.  If 
no  one  else  at  the  board  had  perceived  it,  he,  at  least,  had  un 
derstood  the  Viceroy's  mild  rebuke  for  overdress,  and  his 
mortification  was  sincere.  For  Count  Capece  was  dressed  in 
a  sombre  suit  of  dark  green,  unembroidered  and  unadorned. 
Galvano  Lancia  supplemented  him  in  a  tunic  of  deep  red, 
with  black  hose  and  leather  belt  and  pouch,  and  the  other 
nobles  were  all  attired  in  garbs  suitable  for  travel.  There 
was  a  confused  hum  and  medley  of  voices,  but  the  one  all- 
absorbing  topic  of  discourse  was  the  appearance  of  Conradino 
on  Italian  soil,  and  the  hope  of  the  Ghibellines  in  the  final 
victory  of  their  cause. 

From  the  first,  Francesco  was  uncomfortable  in  his  new 
place.  In  the  eyes  of  his  companions,  when  he  could  catch 
them,  he  read  only  curiosity,  mingled  in  some  instances  with 
envy  and  malice.  This  was  especially  the  case  at  that  part  of 
the  board  where  Raniero  Frangipani  was  seated,  not  too  far 
removed  from  Ilaria  Caselli,  although  the  latter  had  dropped 
her  eyes,  without  so  much  as  vouchsafing  him  a  glance. 

Francesco  noted  it  all,  and  between  the  unmistakable  gaze 
of  derision  which  came  to  him  from  the  Frangipani  and  his 
associates,  Ilaria's  seeming  unconsciousness  of  his  presence, 
and  the  well-nigh  physical  discomfort  of  being  the  target  of  all 
present,  in  the  seat  assigned  to  him,  he  felt  ill  at  ease.  Before 
he  had  entered  the  room  he  had  absolutely  believed  in  his 
own  ability  to  act.  Now  he  perceived  his  mistake.  Do  what 
he  would,  his  heart  and  his  expression  failed  him  together. 

At  last  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  figure  of  her  who  bore 
the  flower  symbol  of  their  relationship.  Evidently  the  scarlet 
flower  was  being  commented  upon  from  his  rightful  part  of 
the  table,  for  he  beheld  Ilaria's  color  rise.  Unexpectedly  she 
turned  her  head  to  glance  stealthily  at  the  faded  petals  that 
burned  upon  the  cold  purity  of  his  vestments.  In  that  glance 
she  met  his  eyes  full  upon  her.  A  shadow  of  mingled  con- 

69 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

fusion  and  anger  flitted  across  her  face  and,  snatching  her  own 
rose  from  her  gown,  she  dropped  it  on  the  floor. 

Undoubtedly  this  performance  was  calculated  to  throw 
Francesco  into  a  state  of  doubt  and  anxiety  as  to  her  feeling 
for  him.  Yet,  how  little  did  she  guess  the  uselessness  of  that 
coquetry!  What  evermore  would  he  have  to  do  with  love  or 
the  dallying  with  it?  What  woman  would  be  enamored  of  a 
sackcloth  gown?  Yet,  at  this  moment,  he  perceived  that  his 
feeling  for  her  had  rooted  deeper  than  he  had  admitted  to 
himself.  And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that,  were  his  well  of 
bitterness  to  be  deepened  by  one  jot,  it  would  drive  him  mad. 
And  as  these  cobwebs  of  thought  were  spun  out  in  his  tired 
brain,  such  a  black  look  of  despair  came  upon  his  face  that 
Ilaria  was  even  prepared  to  smile  upon  him  when  he  turned 
to  her  again. 

Galvano  Lancia  also  saw  that  expression,  and  guessed  that 
the  Viceroy's  idle  whim  had  made  the  youth  uncomfortable 
enough  for  this  tune.  Bat  in  his  address  there  was  also  a 
courtier's  purpose  which  Count  Capece,  who  was  looking  on, 
understood. 

"  Francesco ! " 

The  youth  turned,  to  find  Galvano  Lancia's  kindly  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  Your  father  is  better  of  his  illness?  " 

"  It  is  well  with  my  father!  "  Francesco  replied  laconically. 

As  the  repast  progressed,  the  situation  was  becoming  almost 
unbearable  for  the  son  of  the  Grand  Master.  Only  the  desire 
to  avoid  constituting  the  target  of  the  almost  general  curi 
osity,  prompted  Francesco  to  remain  at  the  Viceroy's  table. 
He  instinctively  knew  the  eyes  of  Ilaria  to  rest  upon  him  and, 
although  not  another  word  had  been  spoken,  the  situation  was 
becoming  greatly  strained.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  exhibit 
the  misery  which  racked  his  soul  with  a  thousand  pangs  be 
fore  the  gossiping  courtiers  and  monks.  Thus  he  ate  or  made 

70 


WAVES    OF    DESTINY 

a  pretence  at  eating  in  silence.  He  had  become  acutely  sus 
ceptible  to  the  disagreeable  features  of  his  surroundings. 
The  gathering  heat  and  the  heavy  odor  of  meats  and  wines  in 
the  immense  room,  the  flickering  glare  of  the  torches,  the 
shrillness  of  the  many  voices,  the  noises  of  laughter  which 
flowed  together  with  the  wine,  —  they  all  smote  his  senses 
with  a  sharp  sting  of  irritation,  disgust  and  measureless  regret. 
So  many,  many  times  had  he  been  part  of  all  this.  Now  it 
was  going  from  him.  The  thought  and  the  attempt  at  its 
banishment  sickened  him.  He  leaned  upon  the  table,  white 
and  faint.  His  eyes  were  closed.  He  had  lost  the  courage  to 
attempt  further  concealment.  He  instinctively  knew  the 
Frangipani  was  watching  him  and  there  was  a  suggestion  hi 
his  gaze  which  filled  him  with  an  inward  dread.  How  would 
Ilaria  take  it?  What  would  become  of  her,  after  he  had  gone? 
He  glanced  down  the  board.  Flagons  of  wine  and  platters  of 
fruit  were  beginning  to  be  in  great  demand.  Story-telling  and 
jesting,  which  were  wont  to  drag  out  repasts  to  endless  hours, 
had  begun.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  Count  Capece  arose.  His 
move  was  not  instantly  perceived,  but  when  he  was  heard  to 
call  upon  one  of  the  monks  for  a  blessing,  there  was  a  general 
stir  at  the  board.  The  blessing  given,  the  Viceroy  started  from 
the  hall,  when  he  found  himself  accosted  by  Francesco,  who 
had  stumbled  blindly  after  him. 

"  May  I  have  a  word  with  you,  my  lord?  " 

Count  Capece  nodded  and  Francesco  followed  him  to  his 
private  cabinet,  the  doors  of  which  closed  behind  him. 

The  Viceroy  had  seated  himself  and  silently  beckoned  to 
the  youth  to  begin. 

With  an  effort  Francesco  spoke : 

"  I  returned  from  San  Cataldo  last  night,  but  was  denied 
admittance  to  your  Grace,  wherefore  my  presence  here  may 
have  startled  you !  —  " 

There  was  something  like  life  in  Francesco's  tone,  now  the 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

decisive  moment  had  come,  and  looking  down  he  carefully 
noted  the  face  of  him  who  was  to  be  his  judge. 

A  silent  nod  from  the  Viceroy  bade  him  proceed. 

"  By  your  Grace's  leave,"  he  continued,  with  a  marked 
effort,  "  this  must  be  my  last  day  at  the  Court  of  Avellino. 
I  am  bidden  on  a  long  and  tedious  journey.  My  father  would 
have  me  set  out  upon  it  at  once!  I  had  wished  to  acquaint 
your  Grace  of  the  matter  last  night.  I  crave  permission  to 
quit  the  royal  household,  that  I  may  be  free  to  do  my  father's 
bidding." 

Francesco  had  spoken  with  marked  slowness  and  precision, 
that  he  might  force  himself  to  maintain  his  calm  demeanor. 
To  his  own  relief  he  finished  the  speech  with  no  hint  of  a  break 
in  his  tone,  though  gravely  uncomfortable  under  the  Viceroy's 
steady,  searching  gaze. 

Now,  with  a  quiet  gentleness  that  caused  him  to  start  pain 
fully,  he  felt  the  latter's  hand  laid  almost  tenderly  upon  his 
arm.  He  gave  a  startled  look  into  the  frank,  kindly  face  of 
the  Apulian,  and  the  response  that  met  his  eyes  forced  a  swift 
wave  of  color  into  his  bloodless  cheeks.  He  would  have  al 
most  preferred  the  rude  brutality  of  Anjou's  men  to  this  gen 
erosity  which  left  him  no  weapons  for  defence.  He  moved 
uneasily  where  he  stood,  and  his  breath  came  fast. 

He  was  very  near  to  breaking. 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  execute  your  father's  behest," 
the  Viceroy  replied  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
youth.  "Let  but  the  office  wait  its  hour!  You  have  heard 
the  tidings  which  have  brought  joy  to  every  Ghibelline  heart. 
You  note  our  preparations  to  depart.  Conradino  has  crossed  the 
Alps.  To  him  belongs  our  first  duty !  We  are  bound  for  Pavia !  " 

Francesco  gave  an  involuntary  start. 

"  I  also  am  bound  northward!  "  he  said,  and  wished  he  had 
not  spoken. 

The  Viceroy  nodded. 

72 


WAVES    OF    DESTINY 

"  The  better  so !   You  ride  with  us !  " 

Francesco  looked  up  appealingly.  His  misery  received  a 
new  shock  from  the  Viceroy's  lack  of  comprehension. 

"  I  fear  that  may  not  be,"  he  faltered,  then  noting  the  Vice 
roy's  puzzled  look,  he  added: 

"  The  office  I  am  bidden  to  perform,  brooks  no  delay !  " 

Count  Capece  eyed  him  curiously. 

"  What  business  may  that  be,  more  cogent  than  our  own? 
On  the  hoof-beats  of  our  horses  hang  the  destinies  of  a  king 
dom!  None  may  falter,  none  may  turn  back!  I  pry  not  into 
the  nature  of  the  office  you  are  bidden  to  perform.  Yet  all 
personal  interests  should  be  suspended  before  the  one  all- 
absorbing  task,  that  beckons  us  towards  the  Po !  "  — 

"This  business  may  not  wait!" 

It  was  almost  a  wail  that  broke  from  Francesco's  lips.  How 
could  he  make  him  understand  without  revealing  his  father's 
shame! 

A  shadow  flitted  across  the  Viceroy's  brow. 

"  You  will  move  the  more  swiftly  in  our  train!  " 

A  choking  sensation  had  seized  the  youth. 

"  It  may  not  be,  —  I  must  ride,  —  alone!  "  he  stammered. 
All  the  color  had  forsaken  his  face  and  his  knees  barely  sup 
ported  his  body. 

"  And  when  shall  you  return?  "  asked  the  Viceroy,  feigning 
acquiescence. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  ere  Francesco  replied: 

"  I  fear,  my  lord,  —  I  shall  not  return!  " 

Count  Capece  started. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  about  to  renounce  the  Court  of 
Avellino  forever,"  he  replied  after  a  brief  pause,  charged  with 
apprehension.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?  Why  do  you 
tremble?  Your  father  is  better  of  his  illness!  No  messenger 
has  reached  us  from  San  Cataldo.  Is  not  your  presence  here 
proof  of  his  recovery?  " 

73 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  When  I  left  my  father's  side,  his  sickness  was  in  nowise 
lessened,"  responded  Francesco  laconically. 

"Not  lessened!"  exclaimed  the  Viceroy.  "Then  how 
came  you  here?  " 

"  At  my  father's  command  I  am  here!  " 

"  For  what  purpose?  " 

"  To  acquaint  you  of  my  choice  —  of  the  Church !  " 

He  spoke  the  words  in  a  hard  and  dry  tone. 

Count  Capece  had  arisen.  He  was  hardly  less  pale  than 
Francesco,  but  there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  burnt  into 
the  very  soul  of  the  youth. 

"  You  said,  your  choice?  " 

"  My  choice!  " 

"  Ingrate !    Renegade !  " 

Francesco  bowed  his  head. 

He  no  longer  attempted  to  reply,  or  to  vindicate  himself. 
His  head  had  fallen  upon  his  breast.  His  hot  eyes  were  closed. 
His  temples  throbbed  dully.  He  had  known  it  from  the 
start.  They  would  misjudge  him,  they  would  misjudge  his 
motives.  Years  of  loyalty  spent  at  the  Court  of  Avellino 
would  not  mitigate  the  judgment  of  the  step  he  was  about 
to  take ;  they  would  rather  aggravate  it.  They  believed  him 
bought  by  the  Guelphs.  And  his  lips  must  remain  sealed 
forever!  Dared  he  divulge  his  father's  shame?  Dared  he 
cast  an  aspersion  upon  the  guiltless  head  of  her  who  had  given 
him  birth  and  life?  A  life  he  had  not  desired,  forsooth,  yet  one 
that  it  was  his  to  bear  to  the  end,  —  whatever  that  end !  — 

The  Viceroy  seemed  to  await  some  explanation,  some 
apology  —  an  apology  he  could  not  give.  What  would  words 
avail?  Had  not  he,  Francesco,  bartered'his  life,  his  soul,  his 
destiny  into  eternal  bondage?  But  now  his  misery  gave  way 
to  his  pride.  Once  again  he  raised  his  head;  but  in  his  pallid 
face  there  lay  an  expression  of  haughtiness,  of  defiance,  with 
which  he  met  the  Viceroy's  hostile  gaze. 

74 


WAVES    OF    DESTINY 

"  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord !  As  for  my  future  life,  it  is  not 
of  sufficient  import  to  require  or  merit  your  consideration." 

The  Viceroy  pointed  silently  to  the  door. 

As  one  dazed,  Francesco  crept  to  his  chamber. 

There  with  a  great  sob  he  sank  into  a  settle. 

He  gazed  about.  Nothing  seemed  altered  since  the  days 
when  he  had  been  alive.  Not  a  trifle  was  changed  because  a 
human  soul,  a  living  human  soul  had  been  struck  down.  The 
chamber  was  just  the  same  as  before.  Outside  the  water 
plashed  in  the  fountain,  the  birds  carolled  in  the  trees.  As 
for  himself,  —  he  was  dead,  quite  dead. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  couch  and  stared  straight 
into  space.  His  head  ached.  The  very  centre  of  his  brain 
seemed  to  burst.  It  was  all  so  dull,  so  stupid,  —  life  so  utterly 
meaningless. 

He  remembered  he  had  not  spoken  with  Ilaria.  At  the 
very  thought  everything  grew  black  before  his  vision.  Yet  he 
could  not  leave  with  the  stigma  upon  his  soul.  She  at  least 
would  understand,  she  at  least  would  pity  him.  He  felt  like 
one  looking  down  into  a  self-dug  grave. 

He  arose  and  stepped  to  the  window. 

It  was  now  past  the  hour  of  high  noon.  The  activity  in  the 
courtyard,  abandoned  during  the  heated  term  of  the  day, 
began  gradually  to  revive.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

Hastily  he  scratched  a  few  lines  on  a  fragment  of  vellum 
which  lay  close  at  hand,  called  an  attendant  and  bade  him 
despatch  it  at  once  to  Ilaria  Caselli. 

Then,  weary  and  tired,  he  gathered  together  his  scant  be 
longings,  so  scant  indeed  as  not  to  encumber  his  steed;  then, 
his  arms  propped  on  his  knees,  he  sat  down  once  more  and 
awaited  the  coming  of  dusk. 


75 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE    BROKEN  TROTH 


PRING  triumphed  with  a  vaunt 
ing  pageant  in  the  park  of  Avel- 
lino,  where  the  gravelled  walks 
were  snowy  beneath  the  light 
of  the  higher  risen  moon,  and 
were  in  shadows  transmuted  to 
dim,  violet  tints.  The  sombre 
foliage  of  yew  and  box  and  ilex 
contrasted  strangely  with  the 
pale  glow  of  the  young  grass, 
sloping  hi  emerald  tinted  terraces  down  to  where  the  lake 
shimmered  through  the  trees. 

It  was  an  enchanted  spot,  second  only  to  the  gardens  of 
Castel  Fiorentino,  with  their  broad  terraces  and  gleaming 
marble  steps,  where  peacocks  proudly  strutted.  At  one  end, 
a  fountain  sent  its  silvery  spray  from  a  tangle  of  oleanders. 
Marble  kiosks  and  statues  gleamed  from  the  sea-green  dusk 
of  the  groves.  All  around  there  rioted  an  untamed  profusion 
of  shrubs:  fantastic  flowers  of  night,  whose  fragrance  hung 
heavy  on  the  air.  Ivy  clung  and  climbed  along  the  crannies 
of  gray  walls ;  roses  sprawled  in  a  crimson  torrent  of  perfume 
over  the  weather-stained  torsos  of  gods  and  satyrs.  In  the 
centre  of  an  ilex-grove  a  marble-cinctured  lake  gazed  still- 
eyed  at  the  sky,  with  white  swans  floating  dream-like  on  its 
mirrored  black  and  silver. 

The  dusk  deepened;  the  golden  moon  hung  low  in  the 
horizon,  flooding  the  garden  with  a  wan  spectral  light.  The 
pool  lay  a  lake  of  silver,  in  a  black  fringe  of  trees.  The  night 

76 


THE    BROKEN    TROTH 

flowers  breathed  forth  drowsy  perfume,  making  heavy  the 
still  air  of  summer. 

Out  of  the  velvet  shadows  there  now  came  a  woman,  with 
dusky  eyes  and  scarlet  lips  and  jewels  that  gleamed  among 
the  folds  of  her  perfumed  robe.  Slowly,  like  a  phantom,  she 
passed  through  the  grove  towards  the  ivy-wreathed  temple 
of  Pomona  by  the  marble-cinctured  lake. 

Francesco  who  had  been  waiting,  his  heart  in  his  throat, 
rose  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  mingled  with  a  mighty  dread.  Would 
she  understand?  Would  she  grasp  the  enormity  of  the  sacri 
fice  he  must  make  on  the  altar  of  duty  and  obedience?  Could 
she  guess,  could  she  read  the  terrible  pain  that  racked  his 
heart  and  soul  at  the  thought  of  parting,  —  a  parting  for  life, 
—  for  all  eternity?  For  never,  even  if  by  chance  they  should 
again  cross  each  other's  path  in  life,  could  there  be  aught  be 
tween  them  save  a  look ;  their  lips  must  be  mute  f orevermore 
and  the  voices  of  their  hearts  hushed. 

So  Fate  had  decreed  it. 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  he  had  been  sold  to  his  own  undoing, 
to  his  own  doom. 

In  a  faint  whisper  came  his  name.  Two  white  hands  were 
extended  towards  him. 

He  arose,  stumbled  forward,  and  the  next  moment  found 
them  in  close  embrace. 

"  My  darling!  My  own!  I  feared  I  had  been  too  bold  in 
my  feelings  for  you !  " 

And  again  and  again  he  kissed  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  and  the 
dusky  sheen  of  her  hair. 

"  I  love  you!  "  she  whispered,  her  arms  about  his  neck,  her 
witch-like  eyes  drinking  in  the  love  and  admiration  which 
beamed  from  his.  "  Since  last  night,  it  seemed  to  me,  we  had 
been  parted  for  months!" 

A  dull  insufferable  pain  gripped  his  heart. 

For  a  moment  he  closed  his  eyes,  then,  placing  his  arm 

77 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

about  her,  Francesco  led  her  to  a  remote  terrace  where  the 
velvet  turf  was  bathed  in  bluish  silver-light,  while  far  below, 
turning  a  little  to  eastward,  wound  the  shimmering  thread  of 
the  Volturno,  rippling  softly  through  the  perfumed  night  into 
the  emerald  shadows  of  the  sleeping  forest. 

All  about  these  two  lay  dream-like  silence. 

What  wonder  they  were  both  loath  to  break  the  spell!  Fran 
cesco,  with  heavy  heart,  watched  the  familiar  scene,  not 
daring  to  think,  only  standing  passive  beside  her,  whose  faint 
breath  stirred  elf-like  the  rose  upon  his  breast. 

Ilaria,  too,  was  silent,  wondering,  hoping,  fearing,  waiting 
for  him  to  speak. 

A  faint  zephyr  stole  through  the  branches  of  the  cypress  and 
magnolia  trees.  And  from  afar,  as  from  another  sphere,  the 
faint  sounds  of  distant  convent  bells  were  wafted  through  the 
impassioned  silence  of  the  southern  night. 

A  sudden  mighty  longing  leaped  into  his  heart. 

To  banish  it,  he  must  speak.  Yet,  try  as  he  would,  he  could 
not.  His  lips  refused  to  form  the  words  and  an  ice-cold  hand 
seemed  to  grip  his  heart. 

Turning  suddenly,  he  took  the  sweet  face  into  his  hands 
and  held  it  for  a  pace,  and  looked  into  her  eyes  with  such  a 
mad  hunger,  such  delirious  longing,  that  she  too  caught  the 
moment's  spell.  Her  breath  came  in  gasps;  her  lips  were 
thirstily  ajar;  she  began  to  lean  towards  him,  and  at  last  he 
threw  his  arms  about  her  and  caught  the  dear  head  so  wildly 
to  his  bosom,  that  woman -like  she  guessed  there  was  some 
thing  hidden  beneath  it  all,  and  while  she  abandoned  herself 
to  his  caresses,  softly  responding  to  them,  the  waves  of  a  great 
fear  swept  over  her  own  heart. 

Looking  up  at  him,  she  caught  the  strange,  wild  expression 
in  his  face,  an  expression  she  had  twice  surprised  since  his 
return  from  his  mysterious  voyage,  once  hi  the  rose-garden, 
then  at  the  repast. 

78 


THE    BROKEN    TROTH 

"  Francesco,"  she  breathed,  with  anxious  wonderment  in 
her  tone,  "  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  " 

Thoroughly  frightened  by  his  manner,  she  caught  him  by 
the  arm. 

He  looked  at  her  with  bewildered  eyes,  but  made  no  imme 
diate  response. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  "  she  repeated,  her 
fear  enhanced  by  his  fierce  look,  his  heaving  breath.  "  Speak! 
What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me?  They  are  stirring  in  the 
courtyard.  We  have  scant  time.  And  you  —  are  you 
ready  when  the  signal  sounds?  Your  garb  is  ill-suited  for  a 
journey !  " 

At  her  words  he  gradually  shook  off  the  lethargy  which 
seemed  to  benumb  his  senses. 

Absently  he  looked  down  upon  his  garb. 

"  I  forgot,"  he  muttered,  then  the  realization  being  forced 
upon  him  that  he  must  speak,  he  took  a  deep  breath,  and  the 
words  sprang  fiercely  from  his  lips. 

"  Ilaria  —  can  you  guess  the  import  of  this  hour?  Can  you 
guess  why  we  are  here  at  this  moment?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  questioningly,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  We  are  here,"  he  stammered,  looking  helplessly  into  her 
face,  —  "to  say  farewell." 

"  Farewell?  "  she  repeated  with  wonderment.  "  Do  you 
not  ride  with  us?  " 

A  negative  gesture  was  slowly  followed  by  the  words: 

"  I  do  not  ride  with  you." 

"  I  do  not  understand!  "  she  said,  hesitation  in  her  tone. 
"  Has  the  Viceroy  —  " 

"  I  am  no  longer  of  the  court!  " 

She  started.    He  saw  the  roses  fade  from  her  cheeks. 

"  Dismissed?  " 

The  words  stung  him  like  a  whip-lash. 

He  bowed  his  head. 

79 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  I  will  see  Count  Capece  at  once !  He  will  not  refuse  a 
boon  to  Ilaria  Caselli !  " 

She  had  arisen,  as  if  to  suit  the  action  to  the  words. 

He  gently  drew  her  back,  disregarding  her  resistance,  her 
wondering  look. 

"  It  is  beyond  recall !  " 

From  the  castle  court  there  came  the  sound  of  a  fanfare. 

Neither  noted  it. 

Yet  a  touch  of  impatience  tinged  Ilaria's  words,  as  she 
turned  to  him  anew. 

"  What  ails  you,  Francesco?  You  are  dealing  in  enigmas. 
Why  are  you  dismissed?  Why  may  I  not  see  the  Viceroy  at 
once,  —  ere  it  be  too  late?  " 

"  Because  it  is  too  late.    We  part  —  for  life !  " 

A  deadly  pallor  had  overspread  her  features. 

"  I  do  not  understand !  "  she  faltered. 

His  head  drooped.  It  was  with  difficulty  he  maintained 
his  self-control. 

"  I  feared  as  much,  —  and  yet,  the  word  must  be  spoken, 

—  farewell  —  forever  —  these  two  words  alone  —  " 

"  Forever!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  between  us?    No,  —  no, 

—  not  that,  —  not  that!"    She  held  out  both  hands  to  him. 
He  caught  them  in  his  own,  as  a  drowning  man  would  hold 
on  to  a  straw. 

"  And  yet,  —  we  must !  "  he  replied,  with  a  choking  voice. 
"  Oh,  Ilaria  —  Ilaria  —  my  sweetheart  —  my  darling,  —  save 
me !  Save  me !  " 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  stared  at  her  vacantly. 

"  Lord  Christ,  —  what  do  I  say !  No,  no !  I  did  not  mean 
that!  I  pray  to  God,  that  we  may  not." 

"  May  not  —  what? "  she  interposed,  her  eyes  in  his. 
"  Francesco,  speak !  What  troubles  you?  What  is  the  mean 
ing  of  it  all?  " 

"  Oh,  Ilaria,"  he  said  slowly,  "  it  is  indeed  more  difficult 

80 


THE    BROKEN    TROTH 

to  tell  than  I  had  guessed.     When  I  leave  Avellino,  it  will  be 
never  to  return!  " 

"  But  why  —  why,  Francesco?  "  she  questioned,  alarmed 
by  his  words,  but  more  by  the  wild  expression  of  his  counte 
nance. 

"  How  can  I  tell  it  —  how  can  I  tell  it?  Is  it  not  enough  for 
you,  to  know  that  I  must  go?  " 

"  You  frighten  me !  "  she  whispered,  drawing  nearer  to  him. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  close,  very  close  to 
him,  pressing  his  lips  upon  her  closed  eyes.  It  was  his  fare 
well  to  love,  to  life. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  love  me !  "  he  begged  in  piteous  tones. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  breathed  in  whispered  accents,  broken 
by  a  sob.  "  Do  you  not  know?  " 

"  I  love  you,"  he  cried  with  sudden  fierceness,  flinging  the 
words  in  rebellion  at  the  inexorable  fate  which  was  in  store 
for  him. 

"  Then,  —  why  must  we  say  it,  —  the  word?  "  she  queried 
anxiously.  "  Think  you  that  I  fear  to  follow  you,  —  wherever 
you  may  go?  " 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  in  close  embrace,  then  his  arms 
fell,  as  if  paralyzed,  from  about  her.  He  drew  back  one  quick 
step,  a  look  crossing  his  face  that  startled  her  even  more 
than  his  strange  unexplained  words. 

"  There  where  I  go,  you  could  not  follow  me  ever,"  he  said 
at  last  with  the  resolution  of  despair.  "  I  am  bound  by  a 
sacred  oath  to  leave  the  world.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  any 
woman  for  her  love !  Henceforth,  my  home  —  this  castle  - 
must  be  a  dream,  a  memory  to  me,  and  you,  Ilaria,  will  stand 
as  far  above  me  as  yonder  star  soars  above  the  earth !  Ilaria ! 
I  have  pledged  my  word  to  my  father  that  I  will  bid  farewell 
to  life  and  happiness,  to  take  in  their  stead  the  lonely  vows  of 
a  Benedictine  monk!  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

81 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him,  as  if  trying  fully  to  com 
prehend  what  it  was  he  had  said. 

Then  his  meaning  pierced  her  brain. 

She  shrank  slowly  away  from  him,  then  stood  quite  still, 
her  eyes  wide  and  dark  with  horror,  her  face  white,  as  a  mask 
of  death.  A  great  icy  wave  of  silence  seemed  to  have  swept 
between  them,  shutting  them  out  from  the  world  of  life. 

In  an  instant  all  the  softness  and  gentleness  of  her  manner 
dropped  from  her  like  a  discarded  garment.  She  drew  her 
trailing  robes  about  her  as  if  she  dreaded  contamination  from 
him.  A  single  petal  from  the  flower  he  wore  had  fallen  upon 
her  breast.  She  brushed  it  from  where  it  nestled.  It  fluttered 
down  upon  the  grass. 

"  A  monk!  And  you  have  dared  to  touch  me!  "  she  hissed, 
as  if  she  would  have  spat  upon  him. 

A  mist  came  over  Francesco's  eyes.  For  a  few  moments 
he  was  conscious  of  nothing.  All  life  and  expression  had  gone 
from  his  face.  He  did  not  see  the  flood  of  grief,  the  anguish 
and  the  wounded  pride  that  prompted  her  action.  He  only 
saw  her  turn  about  without  another  word,  and  move  swiftly 
from  him  towards  the  castle  court,  her  eyes  blinded  with  tears. 

Like  one  dazed,  Francesco  stood  and  stared  at  the  spot 
whence  she  had  gone.  He  saw  and  heard  nothing  save  in 
memory.  His  white  garb  shimmered  in  the  moonlight  with 
more  life  in  its  purity  than  there  was  in  his  face.  His  soul 
was  wrapped  in  awful  bitterness  at  his  destiny,  —  the  punish 
ment  for  his  father's  sin. 

He  had  not  told  her.  He  had  told  no  one.  Twice  on  the 
same  day  he  had  been  misunderstood,  his  integrity  assailed. 
He  had  hoped  and  prayed  for  understanding.  His  prayer  had 
been  denied.  None  there  was  who  understood,  none  who 
even  vaguely  guessed  the  enormity  of  the  sacrifice.  Pity  only 
he  had  encountered,  a  pity  akin  to  contempt,  from  those 
whose  cause  he  had  seemingly  deserted;  disdain  from  her 

82 


THE    BROKEN    TROTH 

whose  lips  might  have  alleviated  the  burden  of  his  destiny  by 
a  blessing  that  he  might  take  with  him  on  his  lonely,  solitary 
road. 

How  long  he  stood  thus,  his  limbs  benumbed,  paralyzed 
with  grief,  afraid  to  move,  almost  afraid  to  breathe,  he  knew 
not.  An  icy  hand  seemed  to  clutch  his  heart. 

Suddenly  from  the  castle  there  came  the  renewed  sound 
of  fanfares,  repeated  hi  brief  intervals.  They  were  preparing 
to  start.  No  one  thought  of  him.  For  them  he  had  already 
ceased  to  be. 

With  an  effort  he  roused  himself. 

Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  He  had  no  longer  any  right 
here,  no  longer  the  right  to  mingle  with  the  happy  companions 
of  former  days.  The  thought  that  she  too  had  turned  from  him 
in  his  hour  of  need,  lent  him  wings.  He  must  set  out  at  once. 
All  that  had  at  one  time  delighted  him,  now  repelled  with  the 
consciousness,  that  it  was  not  for  him. 

He  stole  back  to  the  castle  over  devious  paths,  reached  his 
chamber  and  gathered  up  his  scant  belongings.  A  last  look 
round  the  walls  he  had  learned  to  love,  then  he  crept  softly 
out  into  the  corridor.  Everywhere  he  met  the  rush  and  hubbub 
of  hurried  preparation  for  departure.  No  one  heeded  him. 
The  hall  below  seemed  to  yawn  beneath  him  like  a  black  pit 
as  he  descended. 

Crossing  the  courtyard  amidst  throngs  of  pages,  squires, 
and  pursuivants,  he  made  for  the  stables,  saddled  his  steed, 
and  rode  out  by  the  postern,  unheeded,  unchallenged. 

The  land  of  his  heart's  desire  had  vanished  behind  him,  like 
the  fairy-land  of  golden  sunset  dreams  that  fades  away  when 
darkness  comes. 


83 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   PASSAGE 

RANCESCO  rode  out  into  the 
scented  night  and  the  round 
yellow  moon  rode  with  him. 
Strange  things  were  happening 
beneath  that  moon;  in  the  cru 
cible  of  destiny  a  new  life  was 
forming,  new  feelings  arising 
on  the  ashes  of  the  old.  And 
Francesco's  heart  was  slowly 
undergoing  a  change  as  he  rode 
through  the  night  into  a  season  of  darkness,  inevitable,  irre- 
vertible. 

Ahead  of  him  the  great  road  stretched  white  in  the  moon 
light,  a  broad  ribbon  which  lost  itself  among  hills  and  in  the 
shadows  of  trees.  In  his  ears  was  the  thunder  of  his  horse's 
feet,  pounding  insistent  clamor  into  the  quiet  of  the  night.  He 
would  have  desired  wings  for  his  steed ;  the  wind  of  the  speed 
of  his  going  swept  cool  against  his  face.  The  night  was  gray 
around  him,  a  velvet  moon-steeped  darkness,  odorous  with 
the  fragrance  of  breaking  earth.  Far  away  the  deep-throated 
bay  of  a  dog  rose  and  died  across  the  world.  A  bell  note, 
thinned  by  distance  to  a  faint  dream  sound,  stole  over  silent 
hill  and  dale;  peace  seemed  to  wrap  the  world  round  as  hi 
a  cloister  garden.  With  every  mile  that  now  carried  him 
farther  away  from  his  Eden,  from  his  garden  of  dreams,  from 
his  lost  youth,  new  scenes  unrolled  themselves  before  him. 
Off  in  the  wide  Apulian  plains  lights  twinkled  here  and  yon- 

84 


THE    PASSAGE 

der,  wakeful  eyes  of  watchfulness  among  the  hills.  He  passed 
pale  glimmering  bogs,  where  lonely  herons  brooded,  and  wide 
barren  heaths,  over  which  the  road  led  straight  as  an  arrow's 
flight. 

As  the  miles  reeled  away  under  him,  his  restlessness  began 
to  increase  with  the  sweep  of  his  horse's  stride.  Vague  forms 
seemed  to  slip  by  him  in  the  shadows;  in  every  bush  beside 
the  road  he  saw  white  faces  lurking.  Strange,  half -formed 
impressions  of  the  new  life  he  was  about  to  enter  upon,  haunted 
him;  strange  forms  in  monkish  garbs  seemed  to  pass  him  in 
the  gloom  of  the  night  and  vanish  silently  as  ghosts.  Later 
he  could  not  tell  if  he  had  seen  them,  or  if  they  had  been  but 
the  excrescences  of  his  fevered  brain.  For  always,  when  he 
had  endeavored  to  rouse  himself  and  look  about  him  sanely, 
the  road  stretched  before  him  white  and  desolate. 

The  weight  of  the  hours  past,  yet  more  the  presage  of  those 
to  come,  had  crushed  Francesco's  spirit  with  merciless  relent- 
lessness.  He  was  yet  too  young  to  realize  the  healing  power 
of  time,  how  it  bears  forgetfulness  on  its  kindly  wings,  how 
its  shadow  becomes  finally  a  shield,  by  which  the  keen  daggers 
of  remembrance  are  blunted  and  turned  aside.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  human  soul  can  suffer  only  so  far,  that  greater 
miseries  efface  the  memory  of  the  lesser.  The  irony  of  his 
parting  from  Ilaria,  to  him  forever  lost,  her  cruel  words,  had 
stabbed  his  soul  to  the  quick,  and  to  himself  he  appeared  to 
have  entered  into  a  dismal,  dreary  land,  a  boundless  valley 
of  shadows. 

As  he  rode  on,  at  a  wild  and  reckless  pace,  the  only  human 
being  on  that  wide  expanse,  all  sense  of  pain  and  misery  left 
the  son  of  Gregorio  Villani  for  the  time,  even  all  consciousness 
of  the  region  which  he  traversed.  He  could  not  stop;  it 
seemed  an  iron  weight  would  crush  him  to  earth,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  a  force  against  which  he  could  not  struggle  drove 
him  on.  His  brain  seemed  to  be  on  fire ;  balls  of  flame  danced 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

before  his  eyes;  while  he  looked  upon  them,  they  turned  to 
faces  grinning  from  out  a  blood-red  mist.  The  faces  drew 
closer  and  melted  into  one,  Ilaria's  face,  as  he  had  seen  it 
last,  white  in  its  marble-cold  disdain,  with  scarlet  lips  and 
flaming  poppies  in  her  dark  scented  hair. 

Then  the  mist  in  his  eyes  cleared  suddenly,  and  he  saw  the 
figure  below  the  face,  wreathed  in  a  floating  web  of  moonlight, 
through  which  white  limbs  gleamed,  while  the  dusky  hair 
streamed  behind  it  as  a  cloud.  Again,  as  he  looked,  the  form 
was  flying  from  him  upon  a  great  white  horse.  And  as  it  flew, 
it  looked  back  at  him  with  laughing,  witch-like  eyes,  Ilaria's 
eyes,  as  he  was  wont  to  see  them,  and  in  its  hand  it  bore  a  wan 
pale  flame  which  was  his  soul.  And,  with  the  fleeting  vision, 
there  came  to  him  the  realization  that  he  had  forever  lost  that 
for  which  all  men  strive,  which  all  men  hold  most  dear:  life  and 
love;  and  all  his  being  leaped  to  the  fierce  desire  to  break 
the  oath  that  bound  him  to  that  other  sphere,  —  the  Church. 
But  fast  as  his  good  steed  went,  with  ears  laid  back  and  neck 
outstretched  and  body  flattened  to  the  desperate  headlong 
stride,  that  great  white  horse  went  faster,  bearing  ever  just 
beyond  his  reach  the  slender  form  veiled  in  misty  moonbeams, 
the  face  with  the  laughing  eyes  and  the  marble-cold  disdain. 

He  laughed  aloud  in  answer,  caught  up  in  the  whirlwind  of 
his  furious  speed;  heaven  and  earth  held  nothing  for  him 
but  the  frenzy  of  desire.  Fire  of  life,  the  life  he  had  cast  from 
him,  coursed  through  his  veins;  the  chase  was  life  itself, 
exultant,  all-conquering,  sublime.  He  had  no  eyes  for  the 
road  ahead.  Ahead  was  the  darkness  of  the  great  forests. 
A  stride,  and  he  was  within  their  shadows.  The  moon  was 
blotted  out  by  the  blackness  of  the  trees;  and  with  it  had 
faded  the  vision,  gone  like  a  wreath  of  smoke,  or  a  dream  that 
is  lost  in  darkness.  Francesco  reeled  in  his  saddle ;  his  steed 
thundered  on,  the  reins  loose  upon  its  neck,  through  the  damp 
silence  of  the  wood,  where  night  hung  heavy,  thence  out  into 

86 


THE    PASSAGE 

the  open,  where  again  the  road  gleamed  white  and  desolate 
beneath  the  moon. 

And  at  last  the  moon  was  gone  and  the  light  went  out  of  the 
world,  and  he  knew  himself  for  a  soul  cast  into  outer  dark 
ness.  His  mind  was  blank.  He  knew  not  whether  he  lived 
or  died,  nor  did  he  care.  He  lived  in  a  nebulous  void  of  gray 
unconsciousness,  horribly  empty  of  all  thought  and  all  sensa 
tion. 

And  thus  he  rode  onward  on  the  road  to  his  destiny. 


End  of  Book  the  First. 


Book  the  Second 

THE  PILGRIMAGE 


CHAPTER  I 


THE   VIGIL   OF  SANTA   MARIA   ASSUNTA 


N  the  summit  of  a  conical  hill, 
rising  above  the  great  amphi 
theatre  of  forests  that  skirt  the 
sunny  Apulian  plains,  upon  the 
ruins  of  a  temple  to  Apollo 
and  in  a  grove  sacred  to  Venus 
here,  in  the  sixth  century  had 
arisen  the  model  of  western 
monasticism,  the  cloisters  of 
Monte  Cassino. 
From  its  sun-kissed  heights  the  view  extended  on  one  side 
towards  Arpinum  where  the  Prince  of  Roman  orators  was 
born,  on  the  other,  towards  Aquinum,  already  famous  as  the 
birth-place  of  Juvenal.  Scarcely  a  pope  or  emperor  of  note 
there  was  who  had  not  been  personally  connected  with  its 
history.  From  its  mountain  crags  it  had  seen  Goths,  Lom 
bards,  Saracens  and  Normans  devastate  the  land,  had  wit 
nessed  the  death  struggle  between  Guelph  and  Ghibelline, 
the  discomfiture  of  Rome,  and  the  extinction  of  imperial  dy 
nasties. 

Up  to  the  chapter  house  of  the  great  Order  of  Benedict  of 
Nursia,  enthroned  upon  that  predestined  height,  Francesco 
slowly  and  wearily  made  his  way.  After  a  night,  even  more 
restless  than  the  preceding  one,  he  had  journeyed  all  day, 
wishing,  yet  dreading,  to  behold  his  ultimate  goal.  And  as 
he  slowly  rode  up  the  hill  his  heart  sank  with  the  sheer  weight 
of  his  misery. 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

It  was  evening. 

An  immense  silence,  full  of  sadness,  had  fallen  upon  the 
world.  The  distant  mountains  were  lost  in  a  dome  of  roseate 
fire,  which  reached  almost  to  the  horizon,  bordered  by  a  line 
of  pallid  gold.  Only  in  the  west,  like  the  very  Host,  the  sun, 
shrouded  in  golden  mists,  hung  in  the  heavens  over  the  mys 
tery  of  the  sea.  Slowly  the  light  was  changing.  It  was  the 
moment  of  Benediction.  Great  tongues  of  flame  stole  into  the 
firmament ;  the  hills  took  fire  from  the  splendor  of  the  skies. 
Across  the  world  lay  the  shadow  of  the  Mountain.  The  earth 
seemed  as  a  smoking  censer. 

As  one  wrapped  in  a  dream,  Francesco  gazed  across  the 
land.  Far  and  away  in  the  Umbrian  plains  a  fire  shone  like  a 
star  fallen  to  earth ;  then  another  and  another.  Castellazzara 
flamed  on  the  mountain;  Proceno,  Aquapendente,  Elciola  and 
Paladino  in  the  plains.  Torre  Alfina  high  in  the  mountains 
lighted  her  beacon;  San  Lorenzo  in  the  valley  answered  it. 
Every  hamlet  chanted  "  Magnificat "  and  the  hills  answered: 
"Salve  Regina!" 

It  was  the  Vigil  of  Santa  Maria  Assunta. 

From  the  cloisters  above  came  the  sound  of  many  droning 
voices.  They  seemed  to  intensify  the  stillness,  rather  than  to 
disturb  it. 

At  last  he  paused  before  the  great  southern  entrance  to  the 
cloisters.  He  pulled  rein,  but  did  not  dismount.  He  was 
suddenly  overwhelmed  with  a  feeling  strong  enough  to  bow 
his  head  and  to  call  from  his  lips  a  deep,  heartbroken  groan. 
After  three  days  of  freedom  unspeakably  blessed  he  was  now 
to  enter  the  gates  which  would  shut  him  in  away  from  the 
world  of  life,  away  from  the  world  of  men,  perhaps  for  all  his 
remaining  existence.  Three  brief  days !  That  short  time  had 
dispelled  from  his  spirit  the  dull  crust  of  insensibility,  with 
which  he  had  striven  to  clothe  it..  He  was  once  more  to  be 
laid  bare  to  the  lash  of  inward  rebellion  from  which  he  shrank 

92 


THE    VIGIL 

in  horror.  A  pardoned  prisoner  recondemned  to  death,  —  it 
was  easily  compared  to  the  life  to  which  he  must  voluntarily 
resign  himself;  that  endless  existence  of  religious  slavery 
from  whose  soul-crushing  monotony  there  was  no  escape,  but 
death. 

Why  no  escape?  Francesco  stood  there  alone  in  the  falling 
darkness.  None  in  the  cloisters  had  been  advised  of  his  com 
ing.  He  might  yet  —  With  a  tightening  of  the  lips  he  leaped 
from  his  horse  and  gave  the  customary  signal. 

After  a  wait  of  brief  duration  a  lay-brother  appeared,  opened 
the  gates  and  Francesco  Villani  entered  the  precincts  of  Monte 
Cassino. 

Without  stating  the  reasons  of  his  presence,  he  requested 
to  be  forthwith  conducted  into  the  presence  of  the  Prior,  and 
the  monk,  after  having  cared  for  Francesco's  steed,  and  at 
tended  to  his  behest,  returned  after  a  short  time  and  bade 
him  follow.  Arrived  at  the  Prior's  apartment,  his  guide 
knocked  for  admission.  The  door  swung  inward  and  Francesco 
entered  alone. 

The  Prior  had  just  finished  a  special  devotion  in  a  small 
oratory  adjoining  his  chamber  and  was  now  seated  before  a 
massive  oaken  table,  on  which  there  lay  a  curiously  illuminated 
parchment,  from  whose  azure  and  golden  initials  Francesco's 
eyes  turned  shudderingly  to  the  form  of  Romuald,  Prior  of 
Monte  Cassino. 

His  great  and  powerful  frame  was  so  worn  with  vigils  and 
fasts  that  it  seemed  like  that  of  a  huge  skeleton.  He  regarded 
the  youth,  whose  courtly  garb  and  manners  would  not  have 
remained  unremarked  even  in  the  most  brilliant  assembly, 
with  an  air  of  austerity  mingled  with  apathy,  which  age  and 
long  solitude  might  well  have  engendered  and,  after  a  few 
brief  words  of  welcome  such  as  took  little  from  Francesco's 
sense  of  forlornness,  he  bade  the  youth  be  seated. 

Without  attempt  at  delay  or  circumlocution  the  son  of  the 

93 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

Grand  Master  placed  his  father's  letter  in  the  Prior's  hands, 
while  he  turned  his  face  from  this  living  Memento  Mori  in  the 
garb  which  henceforth  must  be  evermore  his  own. 

Francesco  seated  himself  upon  a  settle,  while  the  Prior 
weighed  the  letter  absently  in  his  hand  as  one  undecided 
whether  or  not  to  acquaint  himself  with  its  contents.  At  last 
he  broke  the  seal  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  torch  whose  flickering 
light  drew  Francesco's  attention  towards  the  open  door  of  an 
oratory,  Romuald  slowly  began  to  read.  While  thus  engrossed, 
Francesco's  gaze  wandered  down  the  dim  vistas  of  corridors 
revealed  beyond  Romuald's  chamber,  which  in  the  half-light 
presented  an  exceedingly  gloomy  aspect,  reposing  in  the  un 
certain  glimmer  of  stone  lamps  fixed  in  niches  upon  the  walls. 
These  corridors  were  at  intervals  crossed  by  archways,  mark 
ing  the  termination  of  many  flights  of  stairs  leading  by  galleries 
to  the  upper  chambers  of  the  cloisters.  A  pulpit,  supported 
on  a  pillar  fixed  in  the  wall,  was  revealed  by  the  light  of  five 
or  six  stone  lamps,  which  seemed  to  intensify  rather  than  to 
dispel  the  gloom  beyond. 

During  the  reading  of  Gregorio  Villani's  letter  a  sudden 
change  had  come  over  the  Prior's  face.  Francesco  noted  it 
not,  engrossed  as  he  was  in  scanning  his  surroundings,  silently 
wondering  if  he  would  be  able  to  strip  off  the  gladness  of  earth, 
the  joy  of  youth,  the  yearning  of  the  flesh,  to  become  the 
image  of  that  spiritualized  abnegation  which  the  Prior  repre 
sented  ;  if  his  strength  would  support  his  resolve. 

Suddenly  a  scowl  darkened  Romuald's  brow,  and  from  the 
letter  hi  his  trembling  hands  his  dimmed  eyes  flashed  upon 
the  youth.  Francesco  wondered.  It  was  not  long  before  he 
learned. 

Romuald,  supporting  his  right  arm  on  the  table,  turned  to 
the  youth. 

"  You  then  are  the  son  of  Gregorio  Villani !  And  you  think 
to  live  here  amongst  us,  to  enjoy  the  peace  and  the  solitude 

94 


THE    VIGIL 

of  these  cloisters,  whose  life-long  enemy  your  father  has 
been!" 

At  the  Prior's  words  Francesco  had  started. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  my  father's  quarrels,  nothing  of  the 
quarrels  of  the  monks,"  he  said. 

The  Prior  nodded  absently. 

"  You  were  raised  at  the  Court  of  Avellino?  " 

"  Such  was  my  father's  will!  " 

Romuald  looked  up  at  him  curiously. 

"  And  now,  his  will  is  to  make  of  you  a  monk,  to  do  penance 
for  his  own  transgressions !  " 

Francesco's  head  sank. 

"  The  burden  is  mine  to  bear!  " 

A  strange  light  shone  in  the  Prior's  eyes. 

"  Then  it  is  not  your  own  desire?  " 

Every  vestige  of  color  had  left  Francesco's  face. 

"  It  is  my  wish!  "  - 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"  You  are  loyal  to  the  memory  of  him  who  gave  you  life  but 
to  destroy  it,"  nodded  the  Prior,  as  unconsciously  he  picked 
up  the  letter  from  the  table.  Signs  of  deeper  inward  emotion 
were  revealed  upon  his  face  as,  after  regarding  the  youth  with 
a  gloomy  interest,  he  said  at  last : 

"  For  one  raised  at  court  you  will  find  the  life  of  the  cloister 
arduous  enough." 

A  flood  of  memories  rushed  with  these  words  over  Fran 
cesco. 

They  left  his  countenance  paler  than  before. 

"  I  shall  learn  to  bear  it." 

A  sudden  gleam  of  pity  seemed  to  beam  from  Romuald's 
passionless  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  brave  beginning  of  the  new  life,  —  for  I  doubt  not 
you  must  stay.  The  word  of  His  Holiness  is  law.  To-night, 
since  collation  is  over  in  the  refectory,  you  will  sup  with  me. 

95 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

To-morrow  you  shall  exchange  this  garb  for  the  simpler 
one." 

Sick  at  heart,  Francesco  nodded  silent  acquiescence. 

At  this  moment  a  monk  entered,  carrying  a  platter  which 
he  placed  upon  a  table  and,  after  arranging  it  according  to 
the  Prior's  direction,  left  the  latter  alone  with  his  guest. 

The  collation  was  by  no  means  traditionally  meagre.  In 
truth,  it  seemed  to  Francesco  far  above  what  his  fancy  about 
monastic  life  had  led  him  to  expect. 

At  last  when  everything  upon  the  trenchers,  together  with 
the  last  flagon  of  wine,  had  been  done  ample  justice  to,  Fran 
cesco,  after  due  thanksgiving,  arose. 

Romuald's  gaze  had  never  relinquished  the  youth  during 
the  repast. 

"  Now  to  St.  Benedict's  chapel,  wherein  already  the  bell  is 
calling,"  he  said,  rising  slowly.  "  After  compline  you  shall 
be  conducted  to  your  cell,  —  one  for  yourself  within  the  dor 
mitory  overhead.  This  is  the  way." 

A  small  door  at  one  side  of  the  Prior's  room  opened  upon  a 
narrow  passage,  along  which  they  walked  side  by  side  in  semi- 
darkness,  till  the  light  from  the  chapter  house  met  their  eyes. 
Through  this  large  room  they  passed,  entering  from  it  the 
great  Church  itself,  the  further  end  of  which  opened  into  a 
beautiful  chapel  consecrated  many  years  ago  to  the  founder 
of  the  cloister,  St.  Benedict  of  Nursia. 

When  the  Prior  and  his  companion  entered  here,  the  monks 
were  already  assembled.  There  was  many  a  curious  glance 
cast  towards  Francesco  as  he  strode  along  the  kneeling  com 
pany  by  the  side  of  the  Prior. 

So  occupied  was  the  newcomer  with  the  novelty  of  the 
scene,  that  the  old  and  familiar  worship,  witnessed  among 
different  surroundings,  did  not  pall  upon  him  here. 

Mechanically  his  lips  moved,  while  his  eyes  wandered  over 
the  white  carven  screen  before  the  altar  and  the  pillar  that 

96 


THE    VIGIL 

rose  above  it  out  of  the  range  of  candle-light,  to  mingle  with 
the  shadows  above. 

Then,  by  a  slight  turn  of  the  head,  he  could  see  the  black, 
well-like  entrance  to  the  large  church,  where  one  or  two  dis 
tant  lamps,  lighted  by  penitent  monks  before  special  shrines, 
flashed  like  infinitesimal  stars  through  the  gloom.  As  for  the 
long  rows  of  kneeling  monks  about  him,  they  seemed  to  Fran 
cesco  to  differ  not  at  all  from  those  he  had  known  and  met 
in  the  monasteries  of  Apulia,  or  those  he  had  seen  in  the 
Augustinian  monastery  of  San  Cataldo.  They  were  the  same 
unsympathetic  forms,  the  same  shorn  pates,  the  same  dull 
faces,  for  whom  the  world  outside  the  gates  of  the  cloister 
was  but  a  country  unredeemed.  These  were  part  of  the  hosts 
that  formed  the  great  army  of  the  Church,  with  the  aid  of 
which  she  had  slowly  but  surely  obtained  her  hold  on  the  herit 
age  of  Emperor  Frederick  the  Second;  these  were  the  sen 
tinels  of  the  crusading  host  of  Anjou.  They  knew  no  will, 
save  that  of  an  irate,  fanatical  pontiff  who  looked  about  in  vain 
for  means  to  rid  himself  of  his  dearly  beloved  son  and  his 
rapacious  hordes.  Of  these  he  was  henceforth  to  be  a  part, 
their  loves  his  loves,  their  hates  his  hates.  In  vain  did  he 
look  about  for  a  face  idealized  by  the  life  of  the  cloister, 
and,  as  he  looked  and  wondered,  the  last  prayer  was  con 
cluded. 

In  irregular  groups,  amid  a  low  murmur  of  conversation,  the 
monks  left  their  devotions,  now  ended  for  another  day.  Fran 
cesco  followed  them  as  they  moved  down  the  corridor. 

Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned 
about  and  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  Prior. 

"  Fra  Ambrogio  will  conduct  you  to  your  cell,"  said  Romuald, 
beckoning  to  a  long,  lean  monk  who  stared  awkwardly  at  the 
newcomer.  "  The  last  —  in  the  western  wing,"  was  the 
Prior's  laconic  order,  and  Francesco  bowed  in  silence  and 
followed  his  spectral  guide. 

97 


THE    HILL   OF    VENUS 

He  was  too  weary  to  care  to  talk ;  even  to  inquire  about  his 
horse. 

In  a  short  while  the  son  of  the  Grand  Master  was  alone  in 
his  dimly  lighted  cell.  It  was  larger  than  he  had  anticipated 
and  far  more  worthily  furnished. 

Upon  a  table  had  been  placed  the  bundle  which  held  his 
belongings.  This  he  unrolled  carelessly,  intending  to  take 
from  it  only  his  tunic  for  the  night.  With  the  movement 
something  from  the  bundle  fell  out  upon  the  stone  floor.  He 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  It  was  the  little  steel  dagger  which  his 
hand  had  gripped  on  the  fatal  night  of  his  return  from  San 
Cataldo.  Thinking  nothing  of  the  omen,  he  slipped  the  for 
bidden  weapon  between  the  leaves  of  a  Missal  which  he 
placed  on  the  table,  and  there  it  remained  for  many  a  long 
day. 

Then  he  sat  down  upon  his  bed,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

Ilaria's  name  rang  in  his  ears;  Ilaria's  image  rilled  every 
atom  of  his  soul.  In  the  paroxysm  of  grief  which  convulsed 
his  frame,  he  shook  like  a  storm-swept  reed;  it  was  in  vain 
he  tried  to  compose  his  mind  to  the  proper  attitude  for  prayer. 

The  crucifix  above  his  bed  swam  in  a  misty  cloud  before  his 
eyes.  It  was  only  after  a  long  litany,  mechanically  repeated, 
that  Francesco  succeeded  in  recalling  his  wandering  imagina 
tion  to  the  mystery  of  the  atonement.  At  last  sheer  physical 
weariness  conquered  the  feverish  agitation  of  his  nerves  and 
he  lay  down. 

The  long  night  passed  in  unbroken  blackness  and  silence. 
In  the  utter  void  and  absence  of  all  external  impressions  Fran 
cesco  gradually  lost  consciousness  of  time.  The  blackness 
of  night  seemed  an  illimitable  thing  with  no  beginning  and 
no  ending;  but,  when  at  early  dawn  he  waked,  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes  and  the  name  of  Ilaria  on  his  lips. 

98 


CHAPTER  II 


THE   PASSING   OF   CONRADINO 

AYS  and  weeks  in  the  cloisters 
of  Monte  Cassino  sufficed  to 
convince  Francesco  that  he  was 
not  destined  to  find  any  friend 
ships  there.  The  elder  Villani 
had  not  seen  fit,  in  an  age  of 
implied  indulgence,  to  keep 
secret  the  nature  of  his  trans 
gression,  and  the  curious  and 
unfriendly  glances  that  met  him 
on  every  turn  had  soon  proclaimed  this  fact  to  the  newcomer, 
who  writhed  inwardly,  but  endured  in  silence.  The  change 
less,  endless  rounds  endured  by  many  thousands  of  human 
souls  for  all  years  of  their  lives,  added  new  torture ;  he  felt 
like  the  stray  leaf  blown  from  its  stem  on  the  sheltering 
branch ;  would  his  ever  be  the  prayerless  peace  for  evermore? 
Thus  month  passed  after  month,  —  in  dire,  changeless 
monotony.  — 

It  was  a  stifling  afternoon  late  in  summer. 
Few  of  the  monks  felt  energy  enough  to  go  about  their  usual 
half-hearted  pastimes,  and  nearly  all  had  retired  to  their 
cells  in  comatose  languor.  Francesco  had  gone  up  with  the 
rest ;  but  the  sun  streamed  brilliantly  into  his  little  cell  through 
the  western  window  and  from  without  there  came  to  his  ears 
the  myriad  droning  of  ephemeral  insect  life.  His  mind  was 
weighted  with  many  thoughts  that  clamored  for  analysis. 

Gradually  he  felt  immersed  in  a  morbid  train  of  reflections 
concerning  as  ever,  the  utter  emptiness  of  his  own  existence, 

99 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

now  really  more  exiled  in  loneliness  than  ever  before.  For 
months  now  he  had  been  in  the  cloisters,  and  not  one  single 
word  from  the  outer  world  concerning  his  future  had  come 
to  him.  The  time  was  fast  approaching  when  he  must  take 
the  final  vows.  Had  the  Pontiff  forgotten  him?  Had  his 
emissary  deceived  his  father  on  his  death-bed?  Or  —  it 
was  unthinkable  —  had  his  father  deceived  him,  to  make  him 
pliable  to  his  wishes?  Was  he  doomed  to  remain  here  till  the 
end  of  time,  severed  from  the  world,  —  forgotten? 

The  very  thought  was  unendurable.  These  conjectures 
were  worse  than  immediate  annihilation.  No  matter  which  it 
was  to  be,  —  he,  the  monk,  was  utterly  powerless.  It  were 
far  better  not  to  yield  himself  to  these  unwise  fears.  The 
Prior  had  been  invisible  to  him  for  days.  He  alone  might,  by 
word  or  hint,  have  alleviated  his  fears ;  but  he  had  not  spoken. 

After  brooding  over  these  matters  till  he  thought  his  brain 
would  burst,  Francesco  determined  to  shake  off  the  oppression 
of  his  cell  and  to  seek  solace  under  the  azure  vault  of  Heaven. 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  impulse,  he  opened  the  door  noise 
lessly  and  stepped  into  the  corridor  without. 

About  him  there  was  absolute  silence.  He  stood  at  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  western  whig.  Nearly  all  the  cells  im 
mediately  about  him  were  untenanted.  For  a  moment  or 
two  he  tarried,  undecided.  Then,  following  an  irresistible 
impulse,  he  stepped  on  to  the  trellised  walk  without  and  de 
cided  to  ascend  the  top  of  the  mountain. 

Escaping  from  the  court  and  the  cloisters,  all  hushed  in 
dream-like  stillness,  he  climbed  a  green  knoll  which  several 
ancient  pines  marked  strangely  with  their  shadows.  There, 
leaning  against  one  of  the  trunks,  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  barrier  of  encircling  mountains,  discovered  by  the  quiver 
ing  sunlight  falling  directly  on  the  forests  which  fringed  their 
acclivities. 

The  vast  woods,  the  steep  descents,  the  precipices  and  tor- 
zoo 


THE  PASSING  OF  CONRADINO 

rents  all  lay  extended  beneath,  softened  by  a  pale-blue  haze 
that  alleviated  in  a  measure  the  stern  prospects  of  the  rocky 
promontories  above.  The  sky  was  of  the  deepest  azure.  The 
hoarse  roar  of  torrents,  throwing  themselves  from  distant 
wildernesses  into  the  gloomy  vales  below,  mingled  with  the 
chant  from  remote  convents. 

How  long  he  had  stood  there,  endeavoring  to  fix  some  pur 
pose  in  his  life,  something  that  would  fill  out  the  emptiness  of 
his  existence  and  give  him  the  strength  to  bear  up  under  the 
burden  of  his  destiny,  Francesco  could  not  have  told,  when  a 
vague  glittering  movement  on  the  opposite  mountain  slopes 
attracted  his  gaze,  a  glitter  that  told  of  an  armed  array  march 
ing  and  riding  among  the  hills.  Even  the  woods  seemed 
peopled  with  shadowy  forms,  slowly  emerging  into  the  bright 
light  of  high-noon,  while  out  of  the  stillness  there  leaped  the 
cry  of  a  horn,  hawberks  glimmered  and  armor  shone.  Beyond 
the  armed  array  the  mountains  towered  solemn  and  stupend 
ous,  fringed  as  with  aureoles  of  lambent  flame.  The  horse 
men  came  from  the  North ;  there  was  a  swirl  of  thought  in 
Francesco's  brain,  then  his  hand  went  to  his  heart:  Conradino 
and  his  iron  hosts  were  marching  on  Rome ! 

And  he,  who  had  dreamed  of  espousing  at  some  day  the 
cause  of  the  last  of  the  Hohenstauffen,  who  had  hoped,  by 
some  great  effort,  to  win  the  crown  of  life  and  liana's  love, 
stood  here  on  the  summit  of  Monte  Cassino,  separated  by 
mountains,  chasms  and  torrents  from  the  glistening  throng, 
which  wound  in  one  long,  sinuous  line  towards  the  ravines  of 
Camaldoli,  separated  by  a  whole  world  from  the  realization 
of  the  hopes  nurtured  in  his  childhood.  He  was  the  bondsman 
of  the  Church,  —  the  bondsman  of  the  Pope. 

It  was  an  indisputable  fact;  he  was  being  caught  in  con 
stantly  ever  narrowing  circles. 

Many  questions  would  hourly  assail  him,  questions  like  the 
hill-towns  of  Umbria,  built  on  the  brink  of  precipices,  walled 

101 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

round  with  barriers  of  unhewn  rock,  seeming  so  near  from  the 
ravine  below,  where  the  wanderer  sees  every  roof,  every 
cypress  tree,  every  pillared  balcony,  but  which  he  cannot 
approach  by  scaling  the  unscalable,  sheer  precipice,  but  must 
slowly  wind  round  from  below,  circling  up  and  down  endless 
undulations  of  vineyard  and  oakwood,  coming  forever  upon 
a  tantalizing  glimpse  of  towers  and  walls,  forever  seemingly 
close  to  the  heights  above  him,  yet  forever  equally  distant, 
till,  at  last,  by  a  sharp  unexpected  turn  of  the  gradually  winding 
road,  he  stands  before  the  gates. 

Thus  was  it  with  his  own  isolated  soul,  a  soul  unaffected  by 
any  other,  unlinked  in  any  work,  or  feeling,  or  suffering  with  any 
any  other  soul,  —  nay  even  with  any  physical  thing. 

Thus  it  stood  between  himself  and  Ilaria.  Thus  they  would 
forever  remain  alone,  never  move,  never  change,  never  cease 
absorbing  through  all  eternity  that  which  the  eye  cannot  see. 

A  soul  purged  perchance,  of  every  human  desire  or  will, 
isolated  from  all  human  affection,  raised  above  the  limits  of 
time  and  space,  hovering  in  a  limbo  of  endless  desire,  twisting 
mystical  hah*  reasoning  away  from  the  peace-hungry  soul ! 

What  a  fate  was  his!  What  a  vortex  of  passions  he  had 
been  thrust  into! 

In  the  streets  of  Rome,  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  were 
fighting.  To  southward  the  Provencals  ravaged  the  land. 
All  over  Italy  the  free-lance  companies  lay  waste  and  burned. 
The  coarse  religion  of  the  cloister  had  no  uplifting  tendency. 
It  was  rather  a  perpetual  smart.  The  first  fervor  of  the  great 
Franciscan  and  Dominican  movements  had  long  been  spent. 
Nothing,  save  the  ill-regulated  enthusiasm  of  heretical  sects, 
had  arisen  to  take  its  place.  In  monasteries  and  convents 
scandals  were  almost  the  order  of  the  day.  It  was  true,  the 
torch  of  Franciscan  faith  still  passed  privately  from  hand  to 
hand.  Some  of  the  ablest  men  of  the  Church  were  discussing 
the  daring  tenets  of  direct  Franciscan  inspiration.  Represent- 

102 


THE  PASSING  OF  CONRADINO 

atives  of  all  phases  of  mediaeval  thought  mingled  with  the 
adherents  of  a  mystic  Oriental  trend. 

Nevertheless,  Francesco,  in  the  dead  of  night,  found  himself 
waking  to  the  sense  of  a  dreadful  loss  and  loneliness.  He  had 
entered  a  hushed  world,  where  human  and  earthly  values 
alike  were  ignored  or  forgotten,  and  the  drama  of  the  soul 
was  all  in  all.  The  demon  of  disillusionment  which  had  beset 
him  ever  since  he  had  ascended  the  heights  of  Monte  Cassino 
began  to  unfold  his  gloomy  wings  over  the  far  horizon  of  his 
soul. 

No  one  knew,  save  himself  and  perhaps  he  not  fully,  how 
deep  a  yearning  for  guidance  underlay  his  sensitive  distaste 
for  the  control  of  men.  His  was  a  nature  that  craved  to  follow, 
as  others  craved  to  lead,  but  which  submitted  itself  reluct 
antly,  and  never  at  the  call  of  convention. 

Devastated  Italy  rose  before  his  eyes,  —  nay,  the  whole 
world  opened  to  the  inner  vision,  one  great  battle-field.  Un 
consciously  his  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  horsemen. 
Their  vanguard  had  long  disappeared  in  the  dusk  of  distant 
forest-aisles;  still  Swabia's  iron-serried  ranks  were  pouring 
from  the  sheltering  boughs  of  the  oaks  above  San  Gemi- 
niano.  — 

Evening  drew  on  apace. 

A  procession,  with  its  gay  dresses  and  colored  tapers  gleam 
ing  like  a  rainbow  against  the  verdant  hills  along  the  curving, 
climbing  road  from  San  Vitale,  attracted  Francesco's  gaze, 
and  with  it  a  sudden  dull  pain  contracted  his  heart  as  he 
strained  his  eyes  towards  the  valley. 

It  seemed  like  a  bridal  procession  in  its  pomp,  its  splendor. 
A  woman  bestriding  a  palfrey  rode  gaily  by  the  side  of  a  man 
conspicuous  in  dark  velvet.  Directly  beneath  where  he  stood, 
she  suddenly  raised  her  head,  as  if  she  had  divined  his  pres 
ence  and  desired  a  witness  to  her  glory. 

With  a  low  cry  of  pain  Francesco  drew  back. 

103 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

At  that  moment,  notwithstanding  the  height,  he  had  recog 
nized  the  magically  fair  features  of  Ilaria  Caselli. 

Like  an  animal  hunted  to  death,  that  wishes  to  die  hi  its 
lair,  he  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  he  faced  what  appeared 
to  be  a  peasant  who  had  come  with  provisions  to  the  cloister. 

As  he  saw  the  young  monk  he  paused  with  a  salutation,  then, 
approaching  him,  he  whispered: 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news?  Messer  Raniero  Frangipani 
and  Madonna  Ilaria  Caselli  are  passing  on  their  bridal  journey 
to  Rome ! " 

Francesco's  face  was  so  pale  that  no  earthly  tint  seemed  to 
have  remained  in  it.  Only  the  large  eyes  gave  evidence  of 
life. 

"  You  come  to  me  from  her?  "  he  questioned  to  the  peasant. 

"  She  bade  me  tell  you  that  from  no  motive  of  coercion,  — 
but  of  her  own  free  will  and  choice,  the  Frangipani's  proposal 
had  been  accepted !  " 

Francesco  gave  a  sudden  cry  like  one  who  leaps  over  a  preci 
pice,  and,  falling  on  his  knees,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

When  he  roused  himself  from  the  stupor  which  benumbed 
his  limbs  the  peasant  had  disappeared,  with  him  the  bridal 
procession  and  the  Swabian  contingents  of  Conradino. 

The  full  moon  gazed  down  upon  him  through  the  great 
silence  of  the  mountain-world,  and  a  thousand  pines  thrust 
up  their  midnight  spears  towards  the  stars. 


104 


CHAPTER   III 


TONSURE   AND   THORN 

HE  following  weeks  dragged 
along  in  hopeless  monotony. 
The  last  night  of  Francesco's 
novitiate  had  come.  There 
would  not  be  a  loophole  of 
escape  for  him  now.  On  the 
morrow,  the  eternal  vows  were 
to  pass  his  lips.  This  night  he 
was  to  spend  in  the  chapel  of 
the  saint  on  his  knees,  sup 
posedly  in  prayer.  It  was  a  solitary  vigil,  for  no  companion 
could  be  granted  him.  A  dangerous  thing  for  a  novice  it  was, 
had  the  monks  but  realized  it :  —  putting  one  for  ten  hours 
alone  at  the  mercy  of  his  thoughts.  And  Francesco  shuddered 
as  they  left  him,  kneeling  upon  the  stones  before  the  solitary 
shrine. 

Could  he  have  seen  himself  he  would  have  staggered !  How 
old  and  emaciated,  shrunken  and  hopeless  he  looked,  as  he 
knelt  there  in  his  ungainly  garments.  The  face  which  had 
formerly  borne  an  open  expression  of  happiness,  was  hard 
now,  unreadable  and  impassive.  His  hands,  once  white  and 
well  cared  for,  had  become  almost  transparent.  As  he  held 
his  body  straight  from  the  knees  upward,  it  was  difficult  to 
perceive  how  much  weaker  this  body  had  grown.  There  was 
a  pathetically  haughty  poise  to  the  head  still;  but  the  skin 
was  colorless. 
The  love  for  Ilaria,  her  witch-like  face,  her  witch-like  eyes, 

105 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

had  remained  with  him.  He  had  hoped  against  hope,  that  by 
some  human,  or  divine  interposition,  the  yoke  about  to  be  im 
posed  upon  him  would  be  shattered,  that  it  would  prove  but 
a  period  of  probation,  a  horrid  nightmare  forsooth,  which 
would  be  dispelled  by  some  divine  ray,  give  him  back  to  earth, 
to  life,  to  love,  for  which  his  heart  yearned  with  a  feverish 
longing  that  was  fast  sapping  his  strength.  His  prayers  had 
been  in  vain:  the  moments  were  fleeting  fast  towards  the 
consummation  of  his  destiny. 

It  suffered  him  no  longer  in  the  incense-saturated  gloom  of 
the  chapel.  Escaping  from  his  solitary  vigil  he  traversed  the 
courtyard  and  almost  unconsciously  reached  the  spot  whence 
on  the  night  of  his  arrival  at  the  cloisters  he  had  looked  down 
upon  the  mountain  world  of  Central  Italy. 

Above,  space  soared.  Glancing  below,  he  was  seized  as 
with  a  sudden  dizziness.  All  idea  of  limitation  seemed  to  have 
ceased  in  this  infinity,  for  he  looked  down  upon  a  firmament 
of  cloud.  And  even  as  he  looked,  it  was  vanishing  dream-wise, 
revealing  in  widening  rifts  the  world,  that  gave  it  birth.  A 
world,  —  how  flat  for  all  its  serrated  mountain  ranges,  how 
insignificant  for  all  its  far  horizons,  compared  with  that  immen 
sity  of  the  starry  vault  above. 

As  he  gazed  with  wide,  longing  eyes,  slowly  the  conscious 
ness  of  physical  existence  seemed  to  widen,  till  it  extended  to 
the  horizon  and  in  the  very  extension  was  transfigured.  Fran 
cesco  tried  to  summon  images  of  devotion.  But  the  images 
mocked  the  vast  concave.  He  only  saw  the  deep  eyes  of 
Ilaria  Caselli.  Was  not  the  universe  his  prayer?  Sharp 
summits,  glistening  and  far,  were  better  cries  of  the  soul  than 
he  could  use. 

Long  he  stood  there  on  the  moon-steeped  height  and  gazed 
to  southward  where  the  winding  road  led  into  the  plains  of 
Apulia  to  Avellino,  the  cradle  of  his  destiny.  And  as  he  gazed, 
thoughts,  or  impressions  rather,  began  to  float  through  his 

106 


TONSURE   AND    THORN 

spirit  Heaven,  like  fleecy  clouds  which,  having  withdrawn  to 
the  horizon  begin  to  return  slowly,  wandering  as  it  seemed  at 
random,  yet  shepherded  steadily  by  the  wind  towards  the 
central  upper  deeps  of  the  sky. 

Faint,  clear,  a  melody,  recalling  things  long  left  and  lost, 
throbbed  through  the  silence  of  the  night.  He  listened,  then 
gazed,  spellbound.  Below  him  the  swift  waters  of  the  Liris 
were  smitten  to  tawny  light.  Son  of  the  earth  once  more,  he 
was  once  more  slave  of  his  thoughts. 

Far  above  a  world  of  compromise,  conflict  and  delusion,  a 
world  that  was  soon  to  be  upheaved  by  mortal  strife,  his 
destiny  had  lifted  him  into  this  high  sphere  of  purity  and 
peace.  No  purity  save  in  isolation.  Yet  the  mass  of  men  were 
never  meant  to  climb.  Should  he  take  his  patient  place  with 
the  slow,  ascending  throng,  —  would  not  the  old  story  repeat 
itself,  the  old  turmoil,  conflict,  failure? 

Turning  suddenly,  Francesco  gave  a  start. 

By  his  side  stood  the  Prior. 

He  was  not  slow  to  read  the  distress  in  the  face  of  the  youth. 

"  This  great  peace  of  the  world  above  and  about  us  —  does 
it  not  reconcile  your  soul?  "  the  Prior  spoke  with  a  slow  sweep 
of  his  hand.  "  Is  there  anything  greater  than  isolation  above 
the  herd?  " 

A  great  bitterness  welled  up  in  Francesco's  heart,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he  turned  to  his  interlocutor  with 
the  protest  of  his  soul. 

"  You  would  reject  the  very  affirmations  of  existence!  You 
cry  to  the  imperious  demands  of  Nature  to  create,  to  propa 
gate,  a  mere  perpetual  No!  Let  those  like-minded  betake 
themselves  to  monasteries  and  to  cells.  As  for  myself  —  " 

He  broke  off  with  a  sob.    Had  he  not  lost  the  clue  to  Life? 

The  Prior  regarded  him  quietly. 

"  The  Church  does  not  discourage  the  actions  of  the  in 
dividual,  —  as  long  as  they  do  not  conflict  with  the  eternal 

107 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

laws.  As  for  herself  —  who  must  subdue  men  for  men's  sake, 
—  she  does  reject  them." 

And  Unking  his  arm  in  that  of  Francesco,  the  Prior  drew 
hun  back  into  the  dusk  of  the  deserted  chapel  and  pointing  to 
the  form  of  the  crucified  Christ  above  the  high-altar  said : 

"  Look  up !  Nails  would  not  have  held  him  on  the  cross, 
had  Love  not  held  him  there !  " 

And  Francesco  sank  upon  his  knees  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 
The  Prior  watched  the  scalding  tears  that  streamed  down  the 
pale,  wan  face ;  then,  when  Francesco  had  sobbed  himself  into 
a  state  bordering  almost  on  apathy,  the  Prior  retraced  his 
steps  and  left  him  to  himself. 

The  moonlight  streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lay  in 
broad  patches  upon  the  marble  floor.  Francesco  staggered 
at  last  from  his  kneeling  posture.  Keeping  in  the  shadow  of 
the  pillars,  he  crept  softly  towards  the  chancel  and  paused  at 
the  altar.  There  he  knelt  again.  Deep  silence  reigned.  Then 
came  deep,  heavy,  tearless  sobs.  He  was  wringing  his  hands 
as  one  in  bodily  pain. 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  re-echoing  through  and  dying 
away  among  the  arches  of  the  roof  filled  him  with  fantastic 
terror  as  the  phantom  of  some  unknown  presence.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  swayed  and  would  have  fallen.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
if  he  had  seen  Ilaria's  face  in  the  purple  dusk.  His  heart 
stood  still. 

He  stared  spellbound.  But  it  had  vanished.  He  was  con 
scious  of  nothing  save  a  sickening  pressure  of  the  blood,  that 
seemed  as  if  it  would  tear  his  breast  asunder,  then  it  surged 
back,  tingling  and  burning,  through  his  body. 

It  was  on  the  following  day. 

The  ceremony  had  been  accomplished. 

Francesco  stood  before  the  high  altar  among  the  monks 
and  acolytes  and  read  the  Introitus  aloud  in  steady  tones.  All 
the  cathedral  was  a  blaze  of  light  and  color,  from  the  holiday 

1 08 


TONSURE   AND    THORN 

dresses  of  tho  peasants  to  the  pillars  with  their  flaming  drap 
eries  and  wreaths  of  flowers.  The  religious  orders  from  the 
adjoining  monasteries  with  their  candles  and  torches,  the 
companies  of  the  parishes,  with  their  crosses  and  pennons, 
lighted  up  the  dun  side-chapels;  hi  the  aisles  the  silken  folds 
of  processional  banners  drooped  their  gilded  staves  and  tas 
sels,  glinting  under  the  arches.  The  surplices  of  the  choris 
ters  gleamed,  rainbow-tinted,  beneath  the  colored  windows; 
the  sunlight  lay  on  the  chancel  floor  in  checkered  stains  of 
orange  and  purple  and  green.  Behind  the  altar  hung  a  shim 
mering  veil  of  silver  tissue,  and  against  the  veil  and  the  deco 
rations  and  the  altar-light,  the  Prior's  figure  stood  out  in  its 
trailing  white  robe  like  a  marble  statue  that  had  come  to  life. 
The  light  of  a  hundred  candles  shone  in  the  deep  still  eyes 
about  him,  eyes  that  had  no  answering  gleam.  At  the  eleva 
tion  of  the  Host  the  Prior  descended  from  his  platform  and 
knelt  before  the  altar.  There  was  a  strange,  even  stillness  in 
his  movement.  The  sea  of  human  life  and  motion  seemed  to 
surge  around  and  below  him  and  die  away  in  the  stillness. 
A  censer  was  brought  to  Francesco,  he  raised  his  hand  with 
the  action  of  an  automaton  and  put  the  incense  into  the  vessel, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left.  Then  he  too  knelt,  swing 
ing  the  censer  slowly  to  and  fro.  He  took  from  the  Prior 
the  sacred  golden  sun,  while  the  choristers  burst  into  a  peal  of 
triumphal  melody: 

Pange  linqua  gloriosi 
Corporis  mysterium. 
Sanguinisque  pretiosi 
Quern  in  mundi  pretium 
Fructus  ventris  gloriosi 
Rex  effudit  gentium. 

Francesco  stood  above  the  monks,  motionless  under  the 
white  canopy,  holding  the  Eucharist  aloft  with  steady  hands. 

109 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Two  by  two  passed  the  monks,  with  lighted  candles  held  left 
to  right,  with  banners  and  torches,  with  crosses  and  images 
and  flags,  they  swept  slowly  down  the  broad  nave  past  the 
garlanded  pillars,  the  sound  of  their  chanting  dying  into  a 
rolling  murmur,  drowned  in  the  pealing  of  new  and  newer 
voices,  as  the  unending  stream  flowed  on  and  yet  new  foot 
steps  echoed  down  the  incense-laden  nave. 

One  by  one  the  visiting  brotherhoods  passed  with  their 
white  shrouds  and  veiled  faces,  the  brothers  of  the  Miseri- 
cordia,  black  from  head  to  foot,  their  eyes  faintly  gleaming 
through  the  holes  in  their  masks;  the  mendicant  friars  with 
their  dusky  cowls  and  bare  brown  feet,  the  russet  Benedic 
tines  and  the  white-robed  grave  Dominicans.  They  all  bore 
testimony  to  the  irrevocable  step  the  son  of  the  Grand  Master 
had  taken.  A  monk  followed,  holding  up  a  great  cross  between 
two  acolytes  with  gleaming  candles.  On  and  on  the  proces 
sion  passed,  form  succeeding  to  form  and  color  to  color.  Long 
white  surplices,  grave  and  seemly,  gave  place  to  gorgeous 
vestments  and  embroidered  pluvials.  The  roses  were  strewn, 
the  procession  filed  out. 

When  the  chant  had  ceased,  Francesco  passed  between  the 
silent  rows  of  the  monks,  where  they  knelt,  each  man  in  his 
place,  the  lighted  candles  uplifted.  And  he  saw  their  hungry 
eyes  fixed  on  the  sacred  body  that  he  bore.  To  right  and  left 
the  white-robed  acolytes  knelt  with  then-  censers,  as  peal  after 
peal  of  song  rang  out,  resounding  under  the  arches,  echoing 
along  the  vaulted  roof. 

Wearily,  mechanically,  Francesco  went  through  the  re 
maining  part  of  his  consecration,  which  had  no  longer  any 
meaning  for  him,  prayer  eluding  him  as  a  vapor.  After  the 
Benediction  he  covered  his  face.  The  voice  of  the  monk  read 
ing  aloud  the  indulgences,  swelled  and  sank  like  a  far-off 
murmur  from  a  world  to  which  he  belonged  no  more. 


no 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   CALL 

URING  the  months  that  fol 
lowed,  it  had  become  Fran 
cesco's  habit  to  spend  most  of 
his  leisure  time  in  loneliness 
on  the  spot  whence  he  had  be 
held  the  passing  of  Conradino's 
iron-serried  hosts  and  where  he 
had  received  Ilaria's  message. 
The  monks  rarely  visited  the 
place,  and  Francesco's  solitude 
was  undisturbed.  He  never  prayed,  nor  even  held  a  religious 
thought  while  there ;  but  the  place  was  well  chosen  for  medi 
tation.  Situated  upon  the  very  summit  of  the  hill,  whose 
slopes  were  bathed  in  purest  air  and  sunlight,  his  gaze  could 
easily  traverse  the  intervening  space  and  follow  the  shining 
course  of  the  river  down  to  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake  of 
Nemi,  many  miles  away.  Following  the  same  direction  still, 
till  vision  was  repulsed  by  the  barrier  of  shadowy  hills,  one 
knew  that  just  beyond  lay  the  sunny  Apulian  land,  the  spot 
to  which  Francesco's  eyes  ever  turned;  towards  which  once 
in  a  passion  of  rebellion,  he  had  strained  his  arms,  then  let 
them  drop  again,  helpless  at  his  sides,  acknowledging  his 
defeat. 

Autumn  and  winter  had  come  and  gone.  Again  spring  was 
in  the  land,  and  with  it  at  last  an  evening  came;  it  was  Satur 
day,  a  night  of  devotions  and  special  Aves  at  the  cloisters. 
The  holy  office  was  still  in  progress,  and  Francesco,  kneeling 
in  the  last  row  of  full-vowed  brethren,  was  striving  to  turn  his 

in 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

thoughts  from  useless  unhappiness,  watching  the  play  of  the 
candlelight  over  the  high-altar.  Thus  he  failed  to  hear  the 
opening  of  the  outer  door,  and  the  rapid  steps  that  passed  and 
returned  by  the  corridor.  It  was  but  a  lay  brother,  and  not 
a  monk  turned  his  head.  But  when  a  murmured  message 
was  delivered  hi  the  Vestibulum,  when  the  jingle  of  chain- 
armor  and  the  heavy  tread  of  nailed  feet  came  echoing  towards 
them,  there  was  a  general  lifting  of  eyes,  a  craning  of  necks 
and  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  speed  of  the  responses. 

The  services  ended,  the  monks  betook  themselves  to  their 
confessionals.  A  small  number  still  lingered  about  the  door, 
waiting  the  possible  arrival  of  Romuald,  the  Prior,  of  whom 
they  might  incidentally  learn  the  title  and  quality  of  the  stranger. 
Francesco  had  retired  into  a  dim  corner,  seemingly  indifferent 
to  the  advent  of  the  visitor.  This  appearance  was  not  so  much 
affectation,  as  a  great  struggle  to  crush  back  the  hope  that 
would  sometimes  slumber,  but  never  die,  within  his  breast. 

Presently,  however,  there  was  a  stir  in  the  arch  of  the  cor 
ridor,  caused  by  the  advent  of  one  of  the  Prior's  attendants, 
who  stopped  still  to  look  about  the  chapel.  Finally,  discover 
ing  what  he  sought,  he  approached  Francesco,  beckoning  to 
him  to  follow  him. 

Francesco  rose  and  came  forward,  his  knees  shaking,  with 
wildly  beating  heart.  He  followed  his  guide  without  looking 
to  right  or  left,  walking  very  slowly,  that  he  might  regain  some 
thing  of  his  self-possession.  Had  the  summons  come  at  last? 
Concerning  its  import  he  did  not  speculate,  so  it  sent  him  into 
a  sphere  of  action,  away  from  this  self-centred  life  at  the 
cloisters,  the  very  calm,  of  which  offered  no  haven  for  the 
storm-tossed  soul. 

When  he  entered  the  Prior's  presence,  his  manner  was 
impassively  expectant.  Romuald  rose  slowly  from  his  place, 
an  overpowering,  almost  conscience-stricken  pity  in  his  heart, 
which  refused  to  come  to  his  lips,  as  on  the  face  of  the  young 

112 


THE    CALL 

monk  there  was  unveiled  at  last  all  the  majesty  of  the  bitter 
loneliness  which  he  had  suffered  so  long  and  so  silently. 

When  the  Prior  turned  to  Francesco,  his  words  dropped 
monotonously  from  his  lips. 

"  A  messenger  has  arrived  from  His  Holiness,  Pope  Clem 
ent,  summoning  you  to  Rome !  You  will  depart  on  the  mor 
row!  " 

Francesco  bowed  his  head  in  silence  and  withdrew.  As 
one  in  a  trance  he  went  out  into  the  empty  corridor.  At  last 
the  call  had  come :  To  Rome,  —  to  Rome !  He  would  leave 
the  dreary  solitude  of  these  mountain-heights,  leave  their 
purity  and  sanctity  and  peace  for  the  strife  and  turmoil  of  a 
fevered  world.  To  Rome,  —  to  Rome!  His  pulses  beat 
faster  at  the  thought.  Thither  had  those  preceded  him, 
among  whom  he  had  spent  the  golden  days  of  his  youth; 
thither  she  had  gone  whose  image  filled  the  dark  and  deso 
late  chambers  of  his  heart;  now  lost  to  him  for  aye  and 
evermore !  And  thither  Conradino  was  marching  with  his  iron 
hosts  to  claim  the  dominion  of  the  Southlands,  his  inheritance, 
his  very  own!  To  Rome,  —  to  Rome!  Once  it  had  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  his  soul.  Now  an  unspeakable  dread  seized 
him  with  the  summons.  He  was  the  bondsman  of  the 
Church,  —  her  shackles  were  pitiless.  Every  feeling  must  be 
stifled,  the  voice  of  the  heart  hushed  in  her  grim  service.  — 

Francesco  entered  his  cell;  a  moment  later  the  cell  was  in 
darkness.  But  could  Francesco's  open  eyes  have  served  the 
purpose  of  a  lantern,  a  dozen  monks  might  have  read  by  their 
light,  unceasingly,  till  matins. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE   DELLS   OF   VALLOMBROSA 


T  was  a  windless  morning.  Still 
ness  and  sunlight  lay  upon  the 
world,  when  on  the  back  of  his 
own  good  steed,  which  had  seen 
heavy  service  since  last  he  rode 
it,  Francesco  bade  farewell  to 
the  cloisters  of  Monte  Cassino. 
Though  hampered  by  his  monk's 
habit,  he  sat  in  the  saddle  with 
the  poise  of  a  nobleman,  as  he 
gathered  up  the  reins.  With  a  cut  upon  his  horse's  neck  and 
a  word  in  the  pointed  black  ear,  he  was  off  at  a  swinging 
gallop,  out  and  away  through  the  open  gate,  past  the  walls  of 
his  prison,  giving  never  a  thought  to  the  gaze  from  twenty 
pairs  of  curious  eyes  which  followed  him  until  he  was  out  of 
sight. 

Free  of  the  cloister !  Oh,  the  rare  intoxication  of  that  thought ! 
And  quickly  upon  it  came  the  memory  of  that  other  departure, 
when  he  had  turned  his  back  on  the  south,  had  strained  his 
eyes  towards  the  setting  sun.  Then  spring  had  awakened  in 
the  land,  everything  was  promise,  save  the  life  upon  which  he 
was  entering.  The  spring  had  gone,  and  with  the  spring  the 
happiness  of  his  life.  A  summer  landscape  stretched  before 
him ;  and  he  rode  towards  the  setting  sun. 

Francesco  rode  slowly  enough.  The  fresh,  free  air  came 
joyously  to  his  nostrils.  His  eyes,  less  sunken  than  they  had 
looked  for  months,  though  he  knew  it  not,  were  seeking  out 

114 


THE  DELLS  OF  VALLOMBROSA 

those  small  tokens  of  beauty,  which  friendly  nature  gladly 
exhibits  to  so  devoted  a  seeker.  Two  shrines  had  he  already 
passed  without  a  Pater  Noster,  filled  with  a  quick,  delirious 
happiness,  which  rose  continually  from  his  heart  to  his  lips. 

Through  the  long,  strange,  secluded  days  at  Monte  Cassino, 
he  had  become  aware  o£  a  profound  respite  from  the  ferment  of 
thought.  On  this  morning,  however,  the  sense  of  self,  with  all 
its  complications,  had  utterly  vanished.  The  insistent  illusions 
of  the  past  seemed  to  have  left  him.  In  the  high  solitudes  in 
which  he  had  been  moving,  living  inviolate  behind  a  stillness 
not  of  this  world,  he  had  wandered  alone,  yet  not  alone, 
through  the  spiritual  landscape  of  which  Fate  had  opened  the 
portals. 

Of  the  monks  he  had  left  he  thought  without  regret.  They 
were  not  remarkable  people,  only  ordinary  men,  for  whom  the 
veil  that  separates  the  seen  from  the  unseen  had  become  thin 
and  sheer.  But  if  not  remarkable  themselves,  a  remarkable 
force  was  playing  through  them.  Dreamers,  yet  carrying  hi 
their  dream  the  memory  of  the  world's  sorrow,  they  had 
gained  high  victory  from  long  meditation  on  redemption  ac 
complished,  and  on  the  spiritual  glory  that  transcends.  Yet 
the  knowledge,  that  by  the  way  of  renunciation  one  comes  to 
the  way  of  fulfillment,  had  not  yet  dawned  upon  Francesco. 

The  sun,  long  clear  of  the  tree-tops,  had  reached  the  valleys, 
and,  as  he  gazed,  the  light  between  the  great  tree-trunks 
grew  from  splendor  to  splendor,  and  flashed  its  level  glories 
through  the  forest,  transfiguring  the  leaves  to  flame.  The 
dark  trees,  which  crowned  the  hill,  were  giving  place,  as  he 
descended,  to  woods  of  fresher  green.  In  the  grass  below 
cyclamen  hung  their  heads  dew-freighted.  The  birds  were  at 
matins.  Through  the  soft  foliage  the  sky  shone,  a  lustrous 
amethyst. 

His  path  struck  the  main  road  presently.  He  wound  through 
an  enclosed  valley,  fairly  wide.  The  world  was  all  awake. 

"5 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

The  summer  sun,  though  young  in  the  heavens,  already 
scorched  where  it  fell.  As  he  passed  on,  the  unfailing  peace 
of  the  woods  received  him,  that  deep  tranquillity  of  verdurous 
gloom  which  absolves  the  wanderer  from  the  faint  glare  of 
noon.  He  saw  himself  once  more  a  tiny  boy,  and  the  years 
between  shrank  into  a  brief  bewilderment  in  his  mind.  Dream 
ing  dreams  long  forgotten,  he  rode  on.  A  wandering  sunbeam 
fell  through  the  branches.  For  a  moment  everything  seemed 
withdrawn:  fret,  fever,  confusion  not  only  exiled,  but  for 
gotten  among  the  whispering  leaves.  The  purity  of  a  great 
silence  was  encompassing  a  great  surrender. 

Behind  him,  straight  above,  the  Castle  of  San  Gemignano 
cut  abruptly  into  the  main  curve  of  the  sky.  Below,  a  trifle  to 
the  south,  a  sister  castle,  beneath  which  a  few  affrighted  houses 
closely  huddled,  rose  against  the  purple  mass  of  Monte  Santa 
Fiore.  But  Francesco  was  looking  away  and  out  over  the 
desolate  sun-lit  lands,  bordered  by  sere  brown  oak  woods, 
and  gray  olive  hills  gilded  by  the  sun. 

Before  him  stretched  the  fields  and  oak  woods  and  vine 
yards  of  Umbria,  a  wide  undulating  valley,  enclosed  by  high 
rounded  hills,  bleak  or  dark  with  ilex,  each  with  its  strange 
terraced  white  city,  Assisi,  Spello,  Spoleto  and  Todi.  The 
Tiber  wound  lazily  along  their  base,  pale  green,  limpid,  scarcely 
rippling  over  its  yellow  pebbles,  screened  by  long  rows  of  reeds 
and  tall  poplars,  reflecting  dimly  the  sky  and  trees,  pointed 
mediaeval  bridges,  and  crenelated  round-towers. 

Barracks  of  mercenary  troops,  strongholds  of  bandit-nobles, 
besieged  and  sacked  and  heaped  with  massacre  by  rival 
factions,  tangled  brushwood  of  ilex  and  oak,  through  which 
wolves  and  foxes  roamed  in  quest  of  their  ghastly  prey,  now 
gave  evidence  of  a  life  other  than  he  had  dreamed  of  even  on 
his  mountain  height.  Burned  houses  and  devastated  corn 
fields  testified  to  the  late  presence  here  of  the  Wolf  of  Anjou. 
The  mutilated  corpses  along  the  road  offered  a  ghastly  sight, 

116 


THE  DELLS  OF  VALLOMBROSA 

which  the  scattered  branches  of  the  mulberries  tried  in  vain 
to  conceal  from  the  wanderer's  gaze. 

Grieved  by  the  sight  that  met  his  progress  through  devas 
tated  Italy,  resignation  schooled  Francesco's  lips  to  silence. 
None  the  less  there  sang  irrepressibly  in  his  heart  the  song 
of  the  open  road.  There  is  exhilaration  in  any  enlargement, 
however  painful  the  personal  experiences  of  the  past  months 
began  to  appear,  a  symbol  at  most  in  miniature  of  the  turbu 
lent  drama  of  the  age.  All  he  saw  and  heard,  confirmed  the 
dark  situation  he  had  heard  described ;  yet  the  fact  of  decision 
had  soothed  his  bewilderment.  There  was  hope  of  action 
ahead.  On  all  lips  there  was  the  same  tale  of  the  unbearable 
tyranny  of  the  Provencals,  of  then"  mean  extortions,  their  cold 
sensuality,  their  cruelty  past  belief.  Everywhere  he  found  the 
smouldering  fire  of  a  righteous  wrath,  everywhere  the  vaulting 
flames  of  a  high  resolve.  The  appearance  on  the  soil  of  Italy 
of  Conradino  was  filling  the  adherents  of  the  Swabian  dynasty 
with  chivalric  passion.  And  Francesco  —  finding  his  own 
spirit  swift  to  respond  to  the  call  —  was  suddenly  reminded 
that  he  had  been  sold  to  the  Church,  who  protected  the  tyrant, 
to  the  Church  whose  passive  servant  he  was,  to  do  as  he  was 
bidden  by  the  Father  of  Christendom.  And,  with  the  thought, 
a  dread  crept  cold  among  his  heart-strings.  His  friends  were 
phantoms  in  the  sunshine,  —  a  vast  gulf  lay  between  them, 
now  and  for  evermore. 

He  was  about  to  be  forced  into  the  actual  world  of  practical 
affairs  and  ecclesiastical  politics.  The  shock  was  rude;  he 
could  not  as  yet  relate  the  two  worlds  in  his  mind,  nor  project 
force  from  one  into  the  other.  What  was  the  Pontiff's  desire 
with  regard  to  himself?  Why  had  he  summoned  him  to 
Rome,  where  he  must  needs  meet  anew  those  in  whose  eyes 
he  had  become  a  traitor,  a  renegade?  Had  he  not  suffered 
enough?  Was  the  measure  of  his  humiliation  still  incomplete? 
—  And  Ilaria  —  Ilaria  — 

117 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

Francesco  had  ridden  all  day,  stopping  for  refreshments 
only,  when  the  need  was  most  felt,  or  his  steed  demanded 
some  rest. 

It  was  a  golden  evening  when  he  rode  into  the  dells  of  Val- 
lombrosa.  Everything  seemed  golden,  —  a  soft  and  melting 
gold.  The  sky,  the  air,  the  motionless  holm-oaks,  the  ground 
itself,  overgrown  with  short,  tawny  moss,  beat  back  a  brilliant 
amber  light.  The  sky  flamed  orange  and  saffron,  and  the  dis 
tant  lake  of  Bolsena  rolled  as  a  sea  of  fire.  A  company  of 
pilgrims  proceeded  through  the  wood,  illumined  by  level, 
golden  rays,  that  struck  under  the  high  branches,  turning  the 
beds  of  fern  to  pale  green  flame,  and  the  tree-trunks  to  un 
substantial  light.  The  fever  of  the  noon-tide  had  become 
tranquil  in  the  evening  glow.  In  their  wake  a  confused  mass 
of  men  and  weapons  flashed  suddenly  into  the  sunlight.  An 
other  procession  with  its  gay  dresses  and  colored  tapers 
gleamed  like  a  rainbow  among  the  branches. 

To  Francesco,  always  delighting  in  pageantry,  the  charm  of 
the  scene  tingled  through  consciousness  almost  as  powerfully 
as  the  Masque  of  the  Gods  he  had  witnessed  on  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  night  at  Avellino.  And  the  same  dull  particu 
lar  pain  shot  through  his  heart,  intensified  a  thousand  times, 
as  they  came  nearer  through  the  sun-lit  forest-aisles,  —  a 
dark  horseman,  superbly  clad  in  white  velvet,  and  beside  him 
the  exquisitely  moulded,  stately  form  of  a  woman,  both  mounted 
on  palfreys  magnificently  caparisoned,  and  followed  by  a  com 
pany  of  young  cavaliers,  giddy  and  gay  in  their  festal  array. 
But  every  drop  of  blood  left  Francesco's  heart,  and  his  cheeks 
were  pale  as  death,  as  hi  the  woman  who  laughed  and  chatted 
so  gaily  he  recognized  Ilaria  Caselli,  —  in  the  man  by  her  side 
Raniero  Frangipani.  He  would  have  wheeled  his  steed  about 
and  fled,  but  an  ice-cold  hand  seemed  to  clutch  at  his  heart, 
benumb  his  senses  and  paralyze  his  endeavors.  His  eyes 
were  riveted  on  Ilaria's  face ;  the  evening  air,  cool  and  gentle, 

118 


THE  DELLS  OF  VALLOMBROSA 

had  waked  a  sweet  color  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  dusky  eyes 
seemed  to  reflect  the  dancing  motes  of  light  which  permeated 
the  ether.  So  bewildering,  so  intoxicating  was  her  beauty, 
that  Francesco  fairly  devoured  her  with  his  gaze,  as  one  doomed 
to  starvation  would  devour  with  his  eyes  the  saving  morsel 
which  another's  hand  had  snatched  from  him.  A  groan  of 
utter  misery  betrayed  his  presence  to  the  leaders,  unseen,  as 
otherwise  he  might  have  hoped  to  remain.  The  Frangipani 
passed  him,  without  taking  any  notice  of  the  monk,  an  accus 
tomed  sight  indeed  in  these  regions,  abounding  in  chapels 
and  sanctuaries  and  the  huts  of  holy  hermits.  Whether  the 
woman  obeyed  the  summons  of  an  inner  voice,  or  whether  the 
despairing  gaze  of  the  youth  compelled  her  own,  —  as  she  was 
about  to  pass  him,  Ilaria  suddenly  reined  in  her  palfrey  and 
met  Francesco's  gaze.  For  a  moment  she  turned  white  to  her 
very  eyes,  then  a  shrill  laugh  rang  like  the  breaking  of  a 
crystal  through  the  sun-lit  wood ;  the  cavalcade  cantered  past, 
many  a  curious  glance  being  turned  on  the  monk,  who  in  some 
unknown  way  had  provoked  Ilaria  Caselli's  sudden  mirth. 

The  sun  had  set.  Filmy  rose-clouds  brooded  in  an  amethyst 
mist  over  the  distant  levels  of  the  sea.  Then,  with  the  swift 
ness  of  the  south,  dusk  enveloped  the  dells  of  Vallombrosa. 

The  procession  had  long  vanished  from  sight.  Still  Fran 
cesco  stared  in  the  direction  where  liana's  laughter  had  died 
away,  as  if  forced  to  do  so  by  some  terrible  spell.  When  the 
awful  pain  of  his  heart  had  to  a  degree  subsided,  he  felt  as  if 
something  had  snapped  in  two  in  its  dark  and  desolate  cham 
bers.  Could  love  become  so  utterly  forgetful  of  its  own,  — 
could  love  be  so  utterly  cruel  and  blind?  Only  a  miracle  could 
now  save  his  soul  from  perishing  in  its  own  darkness! 

The  glory  of  the  night  had,  as  it  were,  deepened  and  grown 
richer.  The  purple  sky  above  was  throbbing,  beating,  palpi 
tating  with  light,  of  stars  and  planets,  and  a  great  gold-red 
moon  was  climbing  slowly  over  the  misty  plains  of  Romagna. 

119 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Fireflies  whirled  in  burning  circles  through  the  perfumed  air, 
and  from  the  convent  of  Vallombrosa  came  the  chant  of  the 
Ave  Maris  Stella,  answered  from  some  distant  cloister  in 
the  greenwood:  "Vale  Carissima!  —  Vale  Carissima!" 


120 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE   DUKE   OF   SPOLETO 


RANCESCO,  having  spent  the 
night  at  a  wayside  inn,  was 
astir  with  the  breaking  of  the 
dawn.  He  saddled  and  bridled 
his  horse  for  the  day's  journey, 
and  having  paid  his  reckoning, 
set  his  face  to  the  west.  The 
grass  was  drenched  with  dew, 
the  woods  towered  heavenward 
with  a  thousand  golden  peaks, 
while  down  in  the  valley  a  rivulet  echoed  back  the  light,  chant 
ing  sonorously  as  it  leaped  over  the  moss-grown  boulders  in 
its  narrow  bed. 

Francesco  was  very  solemn  about  the  eyes  that  morning. 
He  looked  as  one  who  had  aged  years  in  one  night,  and  strove 
with  might  and  main  to  forget  the  past.  He  watched  the  sun 
climb  over  the  leafy  hills  of  Velletri,  saw  the  fleecy  morning 
clouds  sail  through  the  heavens,  heard  the  thunder  of  the 
streams.  There  was  life  in  the  day  and  wild  love  in  the  woods. 
Yet  from  the  world  of  passion  and  delight  he  was  an  exile, 
rather  a  pilgrim,  therein  fettered  by  a  heavy  vow.  He  was  to 
bear  the  Grail  of  Love  through  all  these  wilds,  yet  might  never 
look  thereon,  or  quench  his  thirst. 

Through  all  the  heavy  morning  hours  Francesco  fought 
and  struggled  with  his  youth.  Ilaria's  image  floated  by  his 
side,  robed  in  crimson  and  gold,  her  hah*  dazzled  him  more 
than  the  noon-day  brightness  of  the  sun.  As  for  her  eyes,  he 

121 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

dared  not  look  therein,  but  the  disdainful  laughter  of  her  lips 
still  echoed  in  his  heart.  The  silence  of  the  woods  had  be 
witched  his  soul. 

The  towers  and  turrets  of  Camaldoli  had  faded  behind  him 
in  the  steely  blue.  On  the  distant  horizon  Tivoli  towered  en 
sconced  among  her  cypress-groves.  To  northward  the  woods 
bristled  under  the  relentless  gleam  of  the  sun,  a  glitter  like 
blackened  steel  under  a  summer  sky.  The  road  wound  under 
ancient  trees.  Many  a  huge  ilex  cast  its  gloom  over  the  grass. 
The  stone  pine  towered  on  the  hills,  above  dense  woods  of 
beech  and  chestnut,  and  the  valleys  were  full  of  primeval  oaks, 
whose  sinewy  limbs  stretched  far  over  the  sun-streaked  sward. 

As  for  Francesco,  his  mood  partook  of  the  silence  of  the 
hills.  As  the  sun  rode  higher  in  the  heavens,  he  came  to  a 
wilder  region.  A  desolate  valley  opened  gradually  before  him, 
steeped  on  every  side  with  the  black  umbrage  of  the  woods. 
A  wind  had  arisen,  brisk  and  eager  as  a  blithe  breath  from  the 
sea,  and  cloud  shadows  raced  athwart  the  emerald  dells. 

Lost  hi  reveries  of  the  past,  and  brooding  over  what  the 
tunes  to  come  might  hold  for  him,  Francesco  trotted  on  through 
a  grove  of  birches,  whose  filmy  foliage  arabesqued  the  heav 
ens.  A  glade  opened  to  the  road  below.  All  around  him  were 
tall  hills  deluged  with  green  woods.  A  stream  glittered  through 
the  flats  under  elms  and  drooping  willows. 

Suddenly  a  half-score  of  mounted  men  rounded  the  angle 
of  the  road.  They  sighted  the  solitary  traveller.  At  once  they 
were  at  full  gallop  over  the  grass,  swords  agleam,  lances  prick 
ing  the  blue,  while  the  hot  babel  of  their  tongues  echoed  from 
the  valley.  Francesco,  with  a  grim  twist  of  the  mouth,  heeled 
on  his  horse  and  took  to  the  woods. 

The  great  trees  overarched  him,  beams  of  gold  came  slant- 
hag  through.  The  grass  was  a  deep  green  under  the  purple 
shadows.  Through  the  silence  came  the  dull  thunder  of  hoofs 
as  the  men  cantered  on,  swerving  and  blundering  through  the 

122 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

trees.  They  rode  faster  than  Francesco  upon  his  tired  steed, 
and  the  distance  dwindled  between  the  pack  and  the  chase. 

Onward  Francesco  fled.  The  black  boughs  grazed  his  head, 
the  tree-trunks  seemed  to  gallop  in  the  gloom.  He  could  see 
steel  flashing  through  the  wood,  like  meteorites  plunging 
through  a  cloud. 

Yet  he  hardly  so  much  as  turned  his  head,  for  his  eyes  were 
piercing  the  shadows  before  him.  As  he  swayed  along,  he 
now  heard  a  great  trampling  of  hoofs  in  the  woods.  The 
nearest  galloper  swung  out  from  the  gloom.  He  was  leaning 
over  the  neck  of  his  horse,  his  lips  parted  over  his  teeth,  his 
sword  poised  from  his  outstretched  arm.  The  sword  circled 
over  Francesco's  head,  its  whistling  breath  fanning  his  hair. 
He  cowered;  his  horse  swerved  aside.  The  horse  of  his  as 
sailant  stumbled  over  a  projecting  tree  stump,  hurling  its  rider 
over  its  head  some  six  feet  away  upon  the  ground,  where  he 
lay  stunned,  dropping  his  sword  in  his  fall.  Like  lightning 
Francesco  leaped  from  his  saddle,  picked  up  the  weapon,  and 
remounted,  just  in  time  to  ward  off  a  vicious  blow  aimed  at 
his  head  from  a  second  horseman  who  had  plunged  from  the 
thickets. 

Francesco's  early  training  served  him  well  and  proved  his 
foe's  undoing.  Drawing  up  his  horse  on  sluthering  hoofs  he 
faced  the  second  assailant.  Their  swords  whimpered,  screamed 
and  clashed.  Francesco's  blade  struck  the  man's  throat 
through.  Catching  his  upreared  shield  as  he  fell,  he  tore  it 
from  its  supporting  arm,  just  as  two  more  horsemen  blun 
dered  out  of  the  gloom.  They  sighted  the  horseless  steed, 
the  dead  man  on  the  ground ;  they  saw  the  monk  with  sword 
and  shield,  and  paused  for  a  moment  staggered  at  the  un 
common  sight. 

Francesco,  profiting  by  their  panic,  twisted  tighter  the  strap 
ping  of  his  shield,  and  with  sword  circling  over  his  head  pushed 
his  horse  to  a  gathering  gallop  down  the  hill.  But  his  assail- 

123 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

ants  had  recovered  from  their  sudden  paralysis.  Swerving 
right  and  left,  they  dashed  down  the  glade  in  hot  pursuit. 
Gaining  on  him  from  all  sides,  his  fate  seemed  to  be  sealed, 
when  directly  across  Francesco's  path  there  rode  leisurely  out 
of  the  gloom  of  the  forest  a  score  or  more  of  individuals, 
mounted  on  steeds  well  suited  to  the  riders,  the  like  of  which 
in  point  of  incongruity  of  garb  and  appearance  he  had  never 
before  beheld. 

One  wore  a  cuirass  of  plaited  gold,  beneath  which  was 
visible  a  shirt  of  coarsest  hemp,  and  two  duty  bare  legs.  An 
other  had  a  monk's  capote  tied  about  his  neck  with  silver  links, 
like  jewels  in  a  swine's  snout,  while  his  carcass  was  encased  in 
a  leather  jerkin.  A  third  was  covered  with  the  skin  of  a  wolf, 
and  a  fourth  wore  that  of  a  mountain  lion.  Antler's  horns 
protruded  from  the  chain-mail  skull-cap  of  a  fifth;  a  sixth 
carried  a  round  shield,  covered  with  raw-hide,  and  a  spear. 
So  motley  was  the  array  and  so  fantastic  the  appearance  of 
the  newcomers,  that  one  might  have  taken  them  for  a  band 
of  souls  turned  out  of  purgatory,  who,  on  returning  to  earth, 
had  robbed  a  pawn  shop  to  cover  their  nakedness. 

But  he  who  in  point  of  portliness  and  bulk  would  at  once 
have  been  acknowledged  as  the  one  hi  authority,  a  stout  and 
herculean  being,  swaying  upon  an  antediluvian  steed,  with  a 
helmet  upon  his  head  resembling  a  huge  iron  cask,  now  hove 
into  sight,  like  some  portly  Pan  bestriding  a  Centaur.  He  was 
of  exceeding  bulk,  with  a  flaming  red  beard  and  small,  close- 
set  eyes.  His  sword-belt  would  have  girdled  two  common 
men's  loins.  His  arms  had  the  appearance  of  two  clubs.  A 
great  slit  of  a  mouth,  under  a  bristling  mustachio,  revealed  two 
rows  of  teeth,  large  and  strong  as  a  boar's;  a  double  chin 
flapped  to  and  fro  with  the  motion  of  the  steed,  around  which 
his  legs  curved  like  the  staves  of  a  cask. 

Being  unable  to  check  the  speed  of  his  horse  in  the  steep 
downward  grade  of  the  glen,  Francesco  was  hurled  almost 

124 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

bodily  into  the  very  midst  of  this  fantastic  array,  not  knowing 
whether  he  had  escaped  one  foe  but  to  encounter  another,  or 
whether  there  was  salvation  for  him  in  the  appearance  of  this 
strange  throng. 

The  sight  of  a  monk  racing  at  breakneck  speed  down  the 
glade,  swinging  aloft  a  blood-stained  sword  and  riding  as  one 
born  in  the  saddle,  for  a  moment  staggered  even  the  non 
descripts  and  their  leader.  But,  with  eyes  blinking  under  their 
penthouses  of  fat,  the  latter  had  at  a  glance  taken  in  the  situa 
tion.  A  signal,  —  and  a  whirlwind  seemed  to  fill  the  emerald 
gloom.  The  wood  grew  alive  with  shouting  and  the  noise 
of  hoofs.  Their  number  compelled  Francesco  to  wheel  about 
and  face  his  pursuers,  as  those  to  whom  he  trusted  for  his 
safety  completely  choked  up  the  gorge. 

His  assailants  had  come  to  a  sudden  halt,  as  they  found 
themselves  face  to  face  with  this  fantastic  array,  outnumbering 
their  own  some  ten  to  one.  They  seemed  to  wait  the  command 
of  their  leader,  who  had,  in  the  meantime,  come  up,  bestriding 
a  black  stallion,  a  white  plume  upon  his  helmet,  and  upon  his 
shield  and  breastplate  the  armorial  bearings  of  some  great 
feudal  house,  the  emblem  of  the  Broken  Loaf. 

The  giant  of  the  woods  reined  in  his  elephantine  steed 
within  a  few  paces  of  Francesco's  pursuers  and  waved  his 
chubby  arm,  as  if  he  bade  them  welcome. 

"  What  ho,  gentles !  "  he  roared  with  a  voice  like  a  moun 
tain  cataract,  while  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  played  with  the 
hilt  of  his  huge  sword.  "  What  is  the  sport?  Pray,  let  us  too 
share  in  your  pastime !  Six  to  one  —  and  he  of  friar's  orders 
—  we  take  the  weaker  side!  " 

"  Insolent!  Know  you  to  whom  you  speak?  "  shouted  the 
leader  of  the  men-at-arms.  "The  monk  is  our  prisoner! 
Stand  back  —  at  your  peril!  " 

"  Your  prisoner?  "  returned  he  with  the  iron  cask  in  mock 
ing  accents  and  barbarous  Italian,  such  as  characterized  the 

125 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

hired  mercenaries  and  adventurers  who  hailed  from  beyond 
the  Alps.  "  Are  we  at  war?  Pray,  gentles,  enlighten  our  poor 
understanding,  that  we  too  may  profit  by  your  wisdom.  Or 
are  we  to  understand  that  might  is  right?  We  shall  be  governed 
by  the  oracle !  " 

"  Know  you  who  I  am?  "  shouted  the  leader  of  the  men-at- 
arms,  relying  rather  on  the  prestige  of  a  dreaded  coat-of-arms 
than  on  the  issue  of  so  doubtful  a  conflict,  to  withdraw  with 
honor  from  an  affair  of  little  credit  to  his  name.  "  I  am  Gio 
vanni  Frangipani,  Lord  of  Astura,  Torre  del  Greco,  and  Terra 
di  Lavoro !  Who  are  you?  "  - 

The  giant  bowed  slightly  in  his  saddle. 

"  Sono  Rinaldo,  Duca  di  Spoleto,"  he  replied  carelessly, 
squinting  his  little  watery  eyes.  "  I  am  much  beholden  to 
meet  you  again,  my  Lord  Frangipani.  Have  you  counted  your 
beads  to-day,  after  ravishing  a  maiden  from  the  Campagna, 
and  are  you  loving  your  neighbor  as  yourself?  Pray  —  relieve 
my  anxiety !  " 

At  the  mention  of  his  name,  the  name  of  one  of  the  most 
renowned  free-lances  in  Italy,  at  the  period  of  our  story,  the 
Frangipani's  cheek  paled  and  his  followers  uttered  a  cry  of 
dismay. 

But  the  Lord  of  Astura  believed  discretion  the  better  part 
of  valor.  With  a  half  suppressed  oath  he  wheeled  his  steed 
about,  and,  pursued  by  the  loud  gibes  and  taunts  of  Rinaldo's 
men,  they  trotted  off  and  disappeared  in  the  gorge. 

He,  whose  grandiloquent  estate  seemed  to  have  impressed 
even  so  powerful  a  baron  of  the  empire  as  the  Lord  of  Astura, 
now  turned  in  his  saddle  and  beckoned  Francesco  to  his  side. 

His  followers  brought  up  the  rear,  and,  choosing  a  winding 
forest  path  scarcely  wide  enough  for  two  to  ride  abreast,  the 
singular  cavalcade  cantered  into  the  golden  vapor  of  the  wood. 

At  their  feet  lay  a  great  valley,  a  broad  bowl  touched  by  the 
declining  rays  of  the  sun.  Its  depths  were  checkered  with 

126 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

woods  and  meadows,  pools  set  like  lapis  lazuli  in  an  emerald 
throne.  A  lake  lay  under  the  shadow  of  the  hills.  Heights 
girded  the  valley  on  every  hand,  save  where  a  river  like  a 
giant's  sword  clove  a  deep  defile  through  the  hill. 

Francesco  rode  in  silence  by  the  side  of  the  giant,  gazing  at 
the  valley  below.  It  seemed  like  a  new  world  to  him;  the 
craggy  heights,  the  blown  cioud-banners  overhead,  the  dusky 
woods  frowning  and  smiling  alternately  under  the  sun.  A 
stream  sang  under  the  boughs,  purling  and  foaming  over  a 
broad  ledge  of  stone  into  a  misty  pool. 

They  had  come  to  the  rim  of  an  abyss,  where,  the  trees  re 
ceding,  the  ground  broke  abruptly  into  rocky  slopes,  plunging 
down  perpendicular  under  thickets  of  arbutus  and  pine.  Four 
roads  crossed  at  a  spot  where  a  great  wooden  crucifix  stretched 
out  rough  arms  athwart  the  sky. 

For  a  time  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  had  maintained  a  grim 
silence,  and  Francesco  began  to  wonder  what  his  captors, 
if  such  they  were,  held  in  store  for  him.  The  gray  walls  of  a 
ruin  encrusted  with  lichen  gold  and  green,  rose  towards  the 
azure  of  the  evening  sky.  A  great  silence  covered  the  valley, 
save  for  the  bleating  of  sheep  on  remote  meadows,  or  the  cry 
of  the  lapwing  from  the  marshes.  Distance  purpled  the  far 
horizon.  The  woods  stood  wondrous  green  and  silent,  as  mute 
guardians  of  the  past. 

On  the  slope  of  a  hill,  in  the  shade  of  the  battered  masonry 
of  a  feudal  castle  overlooking  to  the  north  Romagna  and  the 
hills  of  Umbria,  to  southward  the  sun-steeped  plains  of  Cala 
bria,  Francesco  at  last  faced  the  Duke  of  Spoleto,  his  bare, 
blood-stained  sword  across  his  knees.  He  had  partaken  of 
drink  and  food,  while  his  steed  was  grazing  on  the  emerald 
turf,  and  the  men-at-arms  were  roasting  a  kid  and  some 
chestnuts  they  had  gathered,  over  a  fire  kindled  with  dried 
branches  and  decayed  leaves. 

Then  only  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  addressed  the  youth,  whose 

127 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

air  and  manner  had  impressed  the  captain  of  free-lances  to  a 
degree  that  confidence  challenged  confidence,  for  the  duke 
was  not  slow  to  discern  the  stalwart  metal  under  the  friar's 
garb. 

"  Honest  men  are  best  out  of  the  way  when  great  folk  are 
upon  the  road,"  he  expounded  largely,  breaking  the  long 
silence.  "  By  what  special  dispensation  have  you  incurred 
the  love  of  the  Lord  of  Astura?  Have  you  perchance  confessed 
his  wife?  " 

And  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  roared,  as  if  he  had  given  vent  to 
some  uncommon  witticism. 

The  degrading  nature  of  his  predicament  caused  Francesco 
to  be  more  frank  than  he  had  intended.  Nevertheless  he  re 
plied  tentatively. 

"  The  Lord  of  Astura  is  a  Ghibelline.  No  doubt  it  was  the 
friar's  garb  which  aroused  his  choler,  for  I  never  saw  him 
before." 

The  Duke  of  Spoleto  nodded  grimly. 

"  A  renegade  is  ever  the  worst  enemy  of  his  kind." 

The  paradox  was  lost  upon  Francesco. 

But  in  the  course  of  their  converse  the  Duke  of  Spoleto 
revealed  himself  to  be  one  Count  Rupert  of  Teck,  a  bondsman 
of  the  Swabian  branch  of  the  Hohenstauffen,  near  whose 
castle  his  own  was  situated.  In  their  cause  he  had  fought 
Margaret  of  Flanders  and  King  Ottokar  of  Bohemia,  William 
of  Holland  and  Charles  of  Anjou.  After  the  fateful  day  of 
Benevento,  where  Manfred,  the  poet-king,  had  lost  crown  and 
life  against  the  Provencals,  he  had  withdrawn  into  the  fast 
nesses  of  Central  Italy,  collecting  about  him  a  company  of 
malcontents,  such  as  follow  from  afar  the  camp-fires  of  an 
army,  and  had  founded  a  mythical  dukedom  of  uncertain 
territory  among  the  Apennines,  to  chasten  the  world  with  his 
club  and  bruise  the  devil  and  all  his  progeny.  From  his 
stronghold  the  Duke  of  Spoleto,  as  Rupert  of  Teck  more  sono- 

128 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

rously  styled  himself,  harassed  alike  the  Pope,  the  Pope's 
minion  and  the  Guelphs.  But  of  all  whose  watch-towers 
frowned  from  inaccessible  heights  upon  the  Roman  Cam- 
pagna,  he  bore  a  special  and  indelible  grudge  to  the  lords  of 
Astura,  the  cause  and  nature  of  which  he  did  not  see  fit  to 
disclose. 

Francesco  listened  spellbound  to  the  account  of  the  duke's 
greatness.  He  had  his  own  code  of  laws,  and  there  was  no 
appeal  from  his  decision.  In  the  ravine  below,  a  torrent, 
thundering  over  moss-grown  boulders,  sang  a  fitting  accom 
paniment  to  the  duke's  apotheosis.  Far  to  the  south  Soracte 
towered  against  the  gold  of  the  evening  sky.  By  his  side  a 
cistus  was  in  bloom,  its  petals  falling  upon  the  long  grass  and 
the  broken  stone. 

In  the  valley  the  peasantry  were  returning  from  Vespers. 
The  silvery  chimes  of  the  Angelus,  from  some  convent  con 
cealed  in  the  forest  deeps,  smote  the  silence  of  evening.  Deep 
to  the  confines  of  the  dusky  sky  glimmered  the  far  Tyrrhenian 
Sea,  washing  shores  remote  with  sheets  of  foam.  Black  cliffs, 
craggy  and  solemn,  frowned  upon  the  sea.  The  far  heights 
bristled  with  woodland,  dark  under  the  setting  sun. 

Not  once  did  Francesco  interrupt  the  guttural  account  his 
host  gave  of  his  campaigns,  until  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  referred 
to  the  Frangipani.  Some  evil  fate  seemed  indeed  to  have 
predestined  his  meeting  with  the  Lord  of  Astura,  and  while 
his  late  encounter  with  the  brother  of  Raniero  lacked  the 
personal  element,  Francesco's  intuition  informed  him  that, 
sooner  or  later,  the  slumbering  spark  of  an  enduring  hatred 
would  be  fanned  into  a  devouring  flame. 

Francesco's  apparently  irrelevant  question  with  regard  to 
the  origin  of  his  host's  acquaintance  with  the  lords  of  Astura 
caused  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  to  utter  a  great  oath. 

"  Ha!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  and  shall  I  not  pluck  out  the  heart 
of  the  devil,  who  —  " 

129 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

He  suddenly  checked  himself. 

"  Though  an  avowed  Ghibelline,"  he  said,  "  I  trust  him  not! 
His  brother  Latino  lords  it  over  Velletri:  Archbishop  and 
Grand  Inquisitor  in  one,  he  deals  out  blessings  and  musty 
corn,  while  he  mutters  the  prayer  of  the  Fourth  Innocent  in 
the  Lateran:  Perdatis  hujus  Babylonii  nomen  et  reliquias, 
progeniem  atque  germen,  —  a  truly  Christian  prayer!  " 

"  There  is  a  third !  "  Francesco  interposed  with  mean 
ing. 

"  You  know  him?  "  shouted  the  duke.  "  A  twig  of  the  old 
tree,  —  a  libertine,  who  would  barter  his  soul  for  thirty  pieces 
of  silver !  From  yonder  hill  you  may  see  their  lair,  suspended 
on  a  rock  beyond  the  Cape  of  Circe." 

The  speaker  suddenly  paused  and,  turning  to  Francesco, 
gave  a  vicious  pull  at  the  latter's  garb. 

"  Cast  off  your  tatters,"  he  roared,  and  the  sound  of  his 
great  voice  reechoed  through  the  glen.  "  Join  us  in  a  Devil's 
Ave!  Your  limbs  were  made  for  something  better  than  to 
dangle  in  the  noose  of  a  Frangipani.  Or,  —  if  the  garb  is 
pleasing  in  your  sight  you  may  wear  it  over  a  suit  of  chain- 
mail  and  lead  us  in  the  fray  with  lance  and  shield!  It  will 
greatly  promote  our  cause,  —  above  and  below !  " 

And  the  stout  duke  grasped  Francesco  by  the  shoulders, 
affectionately,  and  shook  him  till  his  bones  creaked. 

Francesco  repressed  the  outcry  which  the  pain  drove  to  his 
lips.  A  spasm  of  deepest  bitterness  passed  over  his  face,  as 
he  said: 

"  It  may  not  be ;  —  at  least  not  now !  I  have  a  special  mis 
sion  to  perform.  The  time  may  come  —  who  knows?  Then  I 
will  seek  you  in  your  forest  glades.  I  have  not  always  been 
that  thing  —  a  monk !  " 

The  word  had  passed  his  lips  beyond  recall. 

Rupert  of  Teck  regarded  him  quizzically. 

"  Purge  your  own  pasture  and  let  the  Devil  take  care  of 

130 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

his  own.'  Why  subordinate  your  soul  to  chains  forged  of 
men?  " 

The  day  was  waning  when  Francesco  accompanied  his  host 
back  to  the  ruin.  An  arched  doorway  with  broken  pillars  led 
to  a  low  room,  roofed  with  rough  timber.  There  was  an  im 
provised  bed  of  bracken  in  one  corner,  where  he  was  to  rest 
for  the  night,  for  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  would  not  hear  of  his 
departure  before  dawn. 

"  It  were  perilous  even  for  one  familiar  with  the  roads  to 
traverse  the  forests  at  night;  there  are  more  rogues  about 
than  you  wot  of,"  he  said.  "  On  the  morrow  I  will  myself 
guide  you  to  the  road  you  seek!  " 

Francesco  accepted  the  offer  and  hospitality  of  the  Duke  of 
Spoleto  gratefully,  for  he  was  neither  physically  nor  mentally 
disposed  to  continue  his  journey  at  once.  They  entered  the 
ruin  together,  while  the  band  of  the  duke  chose  their  resting- 
place  outside  on  the  emerald  greensward. 

Night  came  apace  with  a  round  moon  swimming  in  a  sky 
of  dusky  azure,  studded  with  a  myriad  glistening  stars. 

There  was  a  great  loneliness  upon  Francesco's  soul. 

He  lay  awake  a  long  time.  He  heard  the  night  wind  in  the 
forest  trees  and  the  occasional  murmur  of  a  voice,  that  seemed 
to  be  making  a  long  prayer.  He  was  moving  in  the  world  of 
men  now.  Yet  all  the  love  seemed  to  have  left  his  life  and  all 
his  struggles  to  have  ended  in  bitterness.  In  the  hour  of  his 
trial  Ilaria  had  failed  him,  had  hid  her  face  from  him  behind 
the  mask  of  scorn.  He  had  little  hope  of  sleep,  for  there  were 
thoughts  moving  in  his  brain,  tramping  like  restless  sentinels 
to  and  fro.  The  night  seemed  full  of  ghostly  voices  crying  to 
him  out  of  the  dark.  He  heard  Ilaria's  voice,  even  as  he  had 
heard  it  when  she  taunted  him  at  Avellino;  her  laughter  hi 
the  dells  of  Vallombrosa  echoed  in  his  heart.  He  remembered 
the  days  when  he  had  heard  her  sing  with  the  voice  he  loved 
so  well;  for  him  she  would  sing  no  more.  He  found  himself 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

wondering  in  his  heart  if  she  would  weep  if  he  died.  Perhaps 
her  scorn  would  melt  away  when  she  learned  that  he  had  gone 
from  earth  forever. 

Francesco  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  night  open-eyed, 
for  the  memories  of  the  past  drove  the  sleep  from  his  aching 
eyes.  A  soft  breeze  played  in  the  branches  of  the  giant  oaks, 
and  among  the  roses  which  clambered  about  the  walls  of  the 
ruin.  Slim  cypresses  streaked  the  misty  grass,  where  a  little 
pool  caught  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Soon  the  dawn  came,  a  silvery  haze  rising  in  the  east.  The 
cypresses  caught  the  streaming  light,  gliding  from  tree  to  tree ; 
in  the  meadows  fluttered  golden  mists.  The  far  woods  glis 
tened  and  seemed  to  tongue  forth  flame.  A  trumpet  sounded. 
The  duke's  band  rose  to  meet  the  sun. 

After  having  partaken  of  a  morning  repast,  such  as  the 
duke's  stores  afforded,  Francesco  took  leave  of  his  host,  who 
assigned  to  him  a  guide,  to  conduct  him  to  the  broad  highway 
to  Rome.  But,  at  parting,  the  burly  duke  admonished  Fran 
cesco  to  break  the  fetters  forged  in  hell  and  to  turn  to  him  in 
his  hour  of  need. 

The  world  was  full  of  the  splendor  of  the  awakened  day. 
The  waves  of  the  mountain  torrent  were  touched  with  opal 
escent  lights,  as  they  swept  through  the  gorge  below. 

Francesco's  guide  was  a  godly  little  man  with  a  goat's  beard 
and  a  nose  like  the  snout  of  a  pike.  For  a  goatherd  he  was 
amazingly  learned  in  matters  of  religion  and  in  his  knowledge 
of  the  names  and  attributes  of  the  saints.  He  halted  fre 
quently,  knelt  down,  prayed  and  kissed  a  little  holly-wood 
cross  that  he  carried.  His  beard  wagged  through  long  pro 
cessions  of  the  saints,  but  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathaea  was  hon 
ored  with  his  especial  confidence. 

Francesco  had  never  seen  such  an  example  of  secular  godli 
ness  before,  and  began  to  be  impatient  with  the  old  fellow,  who 
bobbed  down  so  frequently,  looking  like  a  goat  squatting  upon 

132 


THE    DUKE    OF    SPOLETO 

its  haunches,  and  mumbling  over  a  great  beard.  All  this 
devotion  was  excellent  in  its  way;  but  Francesco's  religion 
was  running  into  action,  and  the  old  man  loitered  and  told  the 
miles  like  beads  upon  his  rosary. 

He  decided  to  rid  himself  of  the  fellow  as  soon  as  the  goat 
herd  had  served  his  purpose,  for  this  verminous  piety  was  like 
the  drawing  of  a  dirty  clout  across  the  fresh  flavor  of  a  May 
morning. 

Where  four  roads  crossed,  they  parted,  and  Francesco, 
cantering  along  the  high-road,  little  guessed  that  the  wary 
duke  had  assigned  to  him  this  espeoial  guide  to  disgust  him 
with  his  own  garb  and  calling. 


133 


CHAPTER  VII 


ROME! 

HE  chimes  of  the  Angelus  were 
borne  to  him  on  the  soft  breeze 
of  evening,  when,  on  the  third 
day  of  his  journey,  Francesco 
caught  sight  of  the  walls  and 
towers  of  Rome.  As  he  drew 
rein  on  the  crest  of  a  low  hill, 
the  desolate  brown  wastes  of 
the  Campagna  stretched  before 
him,  mile  upon  mile  to  north 
ward,  towards  the  impenetrable  forests  of  Viterbo. 

Before  him  rose  the  huge  half-ruined  wall  of  Aurelian, 
battered  by  Goth  and  Saracen  and  imperial  Greek;  before 
him  towered  the  fortress-tomb  of  the  former  master  of  the 
world,  vast  and  impregnable.  Here  and  there  above  the  broken 
crenelations  of  the  city's  battlements  rose  dark  and  massive 
towers,  square  and  round,  marking  the  fortified  mansions  of 
the  Roman  nobles. 

In  the  evening  light  the  towers  seemed  encircled  as  by  a 
halo.  The  machicolated  heights,  the  encircling  ramparts,  the 
stern  tomb  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian  rose  proudly  impregnable 
into  the  golden  air  of  evening,  a  massive  witness  to  the  power 
of  a  Church,  literally  militant  here  below.  Under  the  broad 
Aelian  bridge,  built  centuries  ago,  rolled  the  turbid  waves  of 
the  Tiber,  and  upon  the  bridge  itself  a  stream  of  humanity, 
hardly  less  intermittent,  was  moving.  Francesco,  having 
buried  his  sword  and  shield  under  a  grass-grown  ruin  beyond 

134 


ROME  ! 

the  city  walls,  rode  dazed  and  wondering  into  the  sun-kissed 
splendors  of  pontifical  Rome. 

Gradually  the  sun  sank,  the  valley  of  the  Tiber  filled  with 
golden  lights,  moving  along  little  by  little,  travelling  slowly  up 
the  emerald  hillocks,  covering  the  bluish  mountains  of  Alba 
with  a  golden  flush,  crowning  the  thousand  churches  and 
palaces  with  a  rosy  sheen,  then  dying  away  into  the  pale, 
amber  horizon,  rosy  where  it  touched  the  distant  hills,  bluish 
where  it  merged  imperceptibly  with  the  upper  sky.  Bluer  and 
bluer  became  the  hills,  deeper  and  deeper  that  first  faint  amber. 
The  valleys  were  filled  with  gray-blue  mist,  against  which  the 
Seven  Hills  stood  out  dark,  cold  and  massive. 

There  was  a  sudden  stillness,  as  when  the  last  chords  of  a 
great  symphony  have  died  away.  The  yellow  waters  of  the 
Tiber  eddied  sullen  and  mournful  round  the  ship-shaped 
island,  along  by  Vesta's  temple,  beneath  the  cypressed  Aven- 
tine. 

After  having  secured  temporary  lodging  at  a  tavern  bearing 
the  sign  of  the  Mermaid,  over  against  the  tower  of  Nona,  near 
the  bridge  of  San  Angelo,  Francesco  wandered  out  into  the 
streets  of  Rome. 

The  inn  was  old,  as  the  times  of  Charlemagne,  and  was  a 
favorite  stopping-place  for  travellers  coming  from  the  north. 
The  quarter  was  at  that  time  in  the  hands  of  the  powerful  house 
of  the  Pierleoni,  whose  first  Pope,  Anacletus,  had  been  dead 
a  little  over  a  century,  and  who,  though  they  lorded  the  castle 
and  many  towers  and  fortresses  in  Rome,  had  not  succeeded 
in  imposing  their  anti-pope  upon  the  Roman  people  against 
the  will  of  Bernard  of  Clairvaux. 

Francesco  wandered  through  the  crooked,  unpaved  streets, 
in  and  out  of  gloomy  courts,  over  desolate  wastes  and  open 
places.  There  was  a  crisis  at  hand  in  the  strife  of  the  factions. 
Every  one  went  armed,  and  those  who  knelt  to  hear  mass  in  a 
church,  knelt  with  their  backs  to  the  wall. 

135 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

At  his  inn,  too,  he  had  noted  every  one  lived  in  a  state  of 
armed  defence,  against  every  one,  including  the  host  and 
other  guests.  And  reasons  were  not  lacking  therefor,  for 
Rome  was  in  the  throes  of  political  convulsions  and  its  walls 
resounded  the  battle-cry  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline. 

Howling  and  singing,  a  mob  filled  the  streets  southward 
to  the  Capitol,  or  even  to  the  distant  Lateran,  where  Mar 
cus  Aurelius  on  his  bronze  horse  watched  the  ages  go  by. 
Across  the  ancient  Aelian  bridge  Francesco  stalked,  under  the 
haunted  battlements  of  Castel  San  Angelo,  where  the  ghost 
of  Theodora  was  said  to  walk  on  autumn  nights,  when  the 
south  wind  blew,  and  through  the  long  wreck  of  the  fair  portico 
that  had  once  extended  from  the  bridge  to  the  Basilica,  till  he 
saw  glistening  in  the  distance  the  broad  flight  of  steps  leading 
to  the  walled  garden  court  of  St.  Peter's. 

Here  he  rested  among  the  cypresses,  wondering  at  the  vast 
bronze  pine-cone  and  the  great  brass  peacocks,  which  Sym- 
machus  had  brought  thither  from  the  ruins  of  Agrippa's  baths, 
in  which  the  family  of  the  Crescentii  had  fortified  themselves 
during  more  than  a  hundred  years. 

For  a  long  time  Francesco  sat  there  in  mournful  silence, 
drinking  in  the  sun-steeped  air  of  evening,  and  the  scent  of 
the  flowers  that  grew  here  with  the  profusion  of  spring-tune. 

An  indescribable  sense  of  desolation  came  over  him,  as  he 
thought  of  his  happy  childhood  with  its  joys  and  griefs,  as  he 
thought  of  the  spring-tune  of  life,  the  days  of  Avellino,  and  of 
Ilaria.  He  sat  here  an  outcast,  an  exile,  one  who  had  no  further 
claim  on  the  joys  of  the  living,  guiltless  himself,  the  victim  of 
another's  sin.  The  soul  of  Rome,  the  Rome  of  Innocent  and 
Clement,  had  taken  hold  of  his  soul,  and,  for  a  time,  he  dreamed 
himself  away  from  the  bleak  present  and  the  bleaker  future. 
The  past,  with  his  father's  sins,  his  own  sorrows,  the  friend 
ship  of  the  Viceroy,  the  love  of  Ilaria,  were  now  all  infinitely 
far  removed  and  dun.  The  future,  whose  magic  mirror  had 

136 


ROME  ! 

once  dazzled  his  senses,  had  faded  like  a  departing  vision  into 
the  blue  Roman  sky.  Only  the  present  remained,  only  the 
hour  was  his,  the  dreamy  half-narcotic  present  with  its  mazy 
charms  which  enmeshed  him,  far  from  the  reality,  the  Rome 
as  it  existed,  where  the  Church  was  the  World,  and  Rome 
herself  meant  some  seven  or  eight  thousand  ruffians,  eager 
always  for  a  change,  because  it  seemed  that  no  change  could 
be  for  the  worse. 

In  the  ancient  Basilica  of  St.  Peter's  at  least  there  was 
peace.  The  white-haired  priests  solemnly  officiated  day  by 
day,  morning  and  noon,  and  at  Vespers  more  than  a  hundred 
voices  sang  the  Vesper  psalms  in  the  Gregorian  chant.  Slim 
youths  in  violet  and  white  swung  silver  censers  before  the  high 
altar,  and  the  incense  floated  in  spiral  clouds  upon  the  sun 
beams  that  fell  slanting  upon  the  antique  floor. 

Here,  at  least,  as  in  many  a  cloister  of  the  world,  the  Church 
was  still  herself,  as  she  was  and  is  and  always  will  be ;  words 
were  spoken  and  solemn  prayers  intoned  that  had  been 
familiar  to  the  lips  of  the  apostles. 

But  they  brought  no  consolation  to  Francesco's  heart;  his 
soul  was  not  relieved  by  the  solemn  ceremony.  With  the  rest 
of  the  worshippers  he  knelt  unconsciously  in  the  old  cathe 
dral;  with  the  rest  of  the  worshippers  he  chanted  the  re 
sponses  and  breathed  anew  the  incense-laden  air,  which  was 
to  encompass  him  to  his  life's  end. 

Refreshed  neither  in  body  nor  soul,  he  returned  to  the  inn 
late  at  night.  But  he  could  not  sleep.  Opening  wide  the  wooden 
shutters  of  his  window,  he  looked  out  upon  the  Mausoleum 
of  the  Flavian  Emperor,  at  the  tide  of  the  Tiber,  which  gleamed 
and  eddied  in  the  moonlight. 

Life  rose  before  him  in  a  mystery,  a  mystery  for  him  to  solve 
by  deeds.  For  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  must  rise  above  his 
fate,  that  he  was  not  idly  to  dream  away  his  years,  and  the 
long  dormant  instinct  of  his  race  bade  him  defy  the  yoke  which 

137 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

was  about  to  be  imposed  upon  him,  not  to  evade  it.  Then  his 
heart  beat  faster;  his  blood  surged  to  his  throat,  and  his  hands 
hardened  one  upon  the  other  as  he  leaned  over  the  stone  sill, 
and  drew  the  night  air  sharply  between  his  closed  teeth. 

And  as  a  gentle  breeze  stirred  the  branches  of  the  willows 
by  the  river  brink,  hi  it  seemed  to  float  a  host  of  spirit  armies, 
ghostly  knights  and  fairy-maidens  and  the  forecast  shadows 
of  things  to  come.  Once  before  during  the  evening  had  this 
sensation  gripped  his  soul,  as  with  a  solitary  monk  whom  he 
chanced  to  meet,  he  had  traversed  the  desolate  regions  of  the 
Aventine  in  the  sun's  afterglow.  And  then,  as  now,  there  had 
come  the  rude  awakening. 

But  from  the  monk  he  had  learned  that  the  Pontiff  had 
fled  from  Rome  before  the  approaching  hosts  of  Conradino, 
and  had  betaken  himself  to  Viterbo,  while  his  champion, 
Charles  of  Anjou,  had  marched  to  southward,  leaving  the  city 
to  the  Ghibellines  and  the  imperial  party  of  the  Colonna. 


End  of  Book  the  Second. 


138 


Book  the  Third 

THE  BONDAGE 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  WHITE   LADY 

HE  Piazza,  of  St.  John  Lateran 
was  alive  with  the  rush  and  roar 
of  a  vast  multitude,  which  con 
gested  the  spacious  square  from 
the  Church  of  Santa  Croce  in 
Gerusalemme  to  the  distant  Es- 
quiline  hill,  occupying  every 
point  of  vantage,  thronging  the 
adjacent  thoroughfares,  crowd 
ing  the  long  Via  Merulana,  and 
filling  the  ruins  of  temples,  the  interstices  of  fallen  walls  and 
roofless  porticoes  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

All  Rome  seemed  to  be  astir,  all  Rome  seemed  to  have 
assembled  to  welcome  the  advent  of  the  Swabian  host,  and  in 
the  keen  delight  of  beholding  Conradino,  the  fair-haired  Ho- 
henstauffen  come  to  claim  the  fair  lands  of  Constanzia,  all 
petty-strife,  contentions  and  party-rivalry  seemed  for  the  nonce 
to  have  been  forgotten. 

In  reality,  however,  such  was  not  the  case. 
So  sudden  had  been  Conradino's  descent  upon  Rome  that 
the  Pontiff  and  his  minion,  Charles  of  Anjou,  had  precipi 
tately  fled  from  the  city,  ere  the  first  German  spear-points 
gleamed  above  the  heights  of  Tivoli. 

The  Roman  Ghibellines,  at  their  head  the  great  and  power 
ful  house  of  the  Colonna,  hated  the  Vulture  of  Provence  as 
intensely  as  did  the  Pontiff,  his  one  time  champion,  and  wel 
comed  with  open  arms  the  grandson  of  the  Emperor  Fred- 

141 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

erick  II,  their  deliverer  from  an  insufferable  yoke,  which  had 
been  as  a  blight  upon  Southern  Italy. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  absence  of  the  pontifical  court,  the 
absence  of  the  Church  militant,  the  institution  which,  when 
Europe  was  over-run  with  barbarian  hordes,  had  preserved 
the  ancient  civilization,  the  power  of  the  city  was  in  evidence 
even  though  huddled  affrighted  amidst  the  majesty  of  imperial 
ruins.  A  memory,  a  dream,  yet  the  power  of  a  dream  out 
lasting  the  ages,  Rome  still  remained  the  mystic  centre  of 
civilization.  — 

With  a  sickly  sense  of  curiosity  not  unmingled  with  awe, 
Francesco  had  mingled  with  the  crowds. 

The  dream  of  his  early  youth  was  about  to  be  realized :  face 
to  face  he  would  behold  the  golden-haired  Hohenstauffen,  - 
yet  at  the  thought  his  heart  sank  with  a  sense  of  dread.  Dull 
misery  had  him  in  its  grip.  The  keen  pain  of  a  false  life,  re 
sentment  of  a  fate  imposed  upon  him  by  another's  will,  per 
meated  every  fibre  of  his  being.  In  his  dreams  he  would  see 
the  friends  of  his  youth,  pointing  to  him,  the  renegade;  he 
would  see  Ilaria,  standing  off  motionless,  spiritless,  regarding 
him  from  afar.  If  she  at  least  had  kept  her  faith!  He  felt 
himself  encompassed  by  the  folding  wings  of  a  great  demon 
of  despair. 

This  feeling  pervaded  him  with  a  sickening  gloom,  in  which 
he  walked  with  drooping  head  and  uncertain  footsteps,  —  yet 
with  the  resolve  to  conquer  hi  the  end ! 

Life  was  no  mere  existence  with  Francesco.  He  loved  light 
and  air  and  freedom.  To  be  in  the  great,  real  world,  to  feel  its 
joys,  its  sunshine,  to  chafe  under  no  conventional,  no  restraint, 
to  know  the  fascination  of  recklessness,  —  that  to  him  was 
life! 

And  about  him  it  surged  hi  blinding  iridescence. 

Notwithstanding  the  months  of  monastic  life  which  lay 
behind  him,  he  had  not  in  any  formal  sense  severed  himself 

142 


THE   WHITE    LADY 

from  the  world.  His  renunciation  of  the  joys  of  the  senses  had 
been  not  primary,  as  with  the  Franciscans,  but,  as  always  with 
those  under  Dominican  influence,  incidental  on  a  choice  of 
higher  interests. 

But  the  conscious  choice  of  a  beautiful  existence  was  ever 
with  him,  and  here,  among  the  thousands  giving  vent  to  their 
joy,  restrained  by  no  dogma  from  voicing  their  gladness, 
loneliness  crept  cold  among  his  heart-strings. 

The  scenes  in  which  he,  half  absently,  hah*  resentfully, 
mingled,  afforded  a  fine  opportunity  to  study  sacerdotal  types. 
Now  and  then  a  scholarly  countenance  detached  itself  with 
startling  effect  from  the  coarser  elements;  now  and  then 
among  the  keen  lines  of  such  a  countenance  played  the  hover 
ing,  unmistakable  light  of  a  personal  sanctity.  There  were 
men  of  the  noblest,  gentlest  blood,  from  whom  came  the  ex 
ample  of  courtly  manners,  of  polished  speech  and  refined  taste. 
Through  the  years  of  desolation  and  ruin,  which  war  brought 
in  its  wake,  they  preserved  art,  literature  and  religion  and 
infused  into  civilization  the  principles  of  self-sacrifice,  charity 
and  chastity.  They  declared  a  message  that  protested  against 
violence  and  injustice.  Francesco  saw  men  among  the  priests, 
whose  broad  shoulders,  singularly  brilliant  dark  faces  and 
magnificent  poise  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  those  upon 
whose  features  had  settled  the  beautiful,  soft  calm  of  spotless 
seclusion. 

Yet  Francesco  felt  no  need  of  such  a  refuge. 

The  espousals  of  piety  and  poverty,  the  inexplicable  mys 
teries,  martyrdoms,  ascetic  faces  and  haggard  figures,  which 
he  had  encountered  upon  entering  the  monastic  life,  the  morbid 
enthusiasm  and  spiritual  frenzy  were  repellent  to  him  now,  as 
they  had  been  then.  Sad-visaged  penitents,  men  scourging 
themselves,  prostrate  in  prayer,  wrestling  with  demons,  waked 
no  responsive  chord  in  his  breast. 

A  splendid  procession,  with  its  gay  dresses  and  colored 

143 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

pennons  gleaming  like  a  rainbow  among  the  sombre  garbs  of 
monks  and  artisans,  at  this  moment  emerged  from  under  the 
frowning  portals  of  a  sombre  palace  and  swept  into  the  sunlit 
square  of  St.  John  Lateran. 

The  cavalcade  was  headed  by  a  cavalier  superb  in  white 
velvet,  riding  abreast  of  a  woman,  tall  and  stately.  They  were 
followed  by  a  company  of  young  nobles,  arrayed  in  festal 
splendor.  The  piazza,  resounded  with  the  echo  of  their  shouts 
and  mirth,  and  the  multitudes  congested  on  the  steps  of  the 
Church  of  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusalemme  shouted  loud  acclaim, 
as  they  passed  on  their  cantering  steeds. 

What  were  those  stabbing  pangs  in  Francesco's  heart  be 
neath  the  noonday  brightness  of  the  sky?  Why  did  he  wish, 
almost  insanely,  that  he  had  not  set  foot  in  Rome? 

The  banners  of  the  Frangipani  waved  proudly  in  the  sun- 
fraught  air,  revealing  their  emblem  of  "  The  Broken  Loaf," 
amidst  velvet,  gilt  and  tinsel. 

As  the  cavalcade  approached,  every  word,  every  tone,  every 
accent  was  ringing  perversely  in  his  ears.  The  piazza  with  its 
maelstrom  of  humanity  seemed  to  whirl  and  to  scintillate 
about  him,  and  the  acclaim  of  the  crowd  surged  in  his  ears  like 
the  dull  roar  of  distant  billows,  as  the  procession  came  to  a 
sudden  stop  at  the  fountain  whence  he  had  viewed  its  ap 
proach. 

Shrinking  beneath  his  cowl,  yet  unable  to  avert  his  gaze, 
Francesco  stood  leaning  on  the  rim  of  the  fountain. 

He  heard  the  voice  of  Ilaria  as,  dismounting  without  the  aid 
of  her  companion,  she  requested  a  cup,  having  taken  a  sudden 
fancy  to  drink  of  the  sparkling  water. 

The  cup  having  been  brought,  she  put  her  lips  to  it,  then 
swiftly  tossed  the  bright  drops  towards  the  sky,  singing  a  little 
melody  as  she  did  so. 

She  had  apparently  not  noted  Francesco's  presence,  though 
his  eyes  had  been  riveted  upon  her  from  under  the  cowl,  and 

144 


THE    WHITE    LADY 

his  face  was  deadly  pale.  Hemmed  in  as  he  was  by  the 
crowds,  he  could  not  have  receded,  had  he  wished  to;  —  thus 
he  stood,  looking  upon  the  face  of  the  woman  he  loved  better 
than  anything  on  earth,  forgetting  heaven  and  earth  in 
doing  so. 

Stooping,  she  filled  the  cup  once  more  and  looked  up  at  her 
companions  with  a  smile. 

"  Who  shall  drink  after  me?  "  she  laughed  merrily. 

Many  a  merry  voice  called  out,  as  they  eagerly  crowded 
about  her. 

"  Who  but  myself?  "  exclaimed  Raniero  Frangipani  with  a 
laugh,  brushing  the  others  away  with  perhaps  a  little  more  de 
cision  than  was  needed. 

But  suddenly  Ilaria  turned  and  deliberately  advanced  to 
the  spot  where  Francesco  stood,  his  cowl  drawn  deeply  over 
his  face. 

"  All  men  do  my  bidding  to-day,"  she  said  in  her  low,  vi 
brant  voice,  offering  him  the  cup,  while  her  eyes  flung  him  a 
glittering  challenge. 

It  was  her  most  winsome  self  that  looked  at  him,  as  she 
said: 

"  Drink  to  me !  " 

Dazed,  he  took  the  cup  from  her.  In  doing  so,  he  touched 
her  soft,  white  skin.  The  cold  draught  seemed  to  burn  like 
fire  as  he  sipped  the  clear  water.  Then,  surprised  by  impulse, 
he  flashed  the  drops  upward,  as  he  had  seen  her  do. 

Her  laughter  sounded  shrill  and  high  as  broken  glass,  as 
the  dislocated  cowl  revealed  Francesco's  features. 

But  she  immediately  regained  her  composure,  and,  without 
a  hint  in  her  voice  of  the  taunt  in  the  dells  of  Vallombrosa, 
she  said,  nodding,  as  if  well  pleased,  and  as  if  for  his  ear 
alone: 

"  The  White  Lady  is  well  pleased.    Is  not  this  her  altar?  " 

But  another  had  recognized  the  monk,  when  for  a  moment 

145 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

his  cowl  fell  away  from  his  face ;  and  Raniero  Frangipani  was 
regarding  him  with  dark  malice. 

As  if  to  leave  a  sting  in  the  memory  of  their  meeting,  Ilaria, 
returning  to  Raniero's  side,  gave  the  latter  a  smile  so  bewitch 
ing  that  his  scowl  vanished.  Remounting  with  his  help,  she 
signalled  for  the  cavalcade  to  proceed. 

The  pain  in  Francesco's  heart  rose,  suffocating,  once  more, 
as  the  procession  swept  onward. 

How  he  had  loved  her !    How  he  loved  her  now ! 

How  shall  a  man  be  sure  of  what  is  hidden  in  his  heart? 
He  was  a  monk,  —  and  she  the  wife  of  Raniero  Frangipani. 

How  wondrous  fair  she  was,  glowing  as  a  rose  in  the  first 
flush  of  spring-time !  How  her  sweet  eyes  had  gleamed  into 
his,  with  their  subdued  fire,  hah*  hidden  under  the  long  silken 
lashes ! 

For  a  moment  he  saw  and  heard  nothing. 

All  sense  of  the  present  seemed  to  have  vanished  while  the 
cavalcade  faded  from  sight. 

Now,  from  the  gates  beyond  St.  John  Lateran,  there  burst 
forth  the  pomp  and  panoply  of  the  North,  with  a  flourish  of 
trumpets,  a  gleaming  of  chain-mail,  a  sparkling  of  pennons. 

Two  heralds,  on  snow-white  chargers,  rode  slowly  through 
the  gate,  sounding  their  fanfares,  their  standards  and  parti 
colored  garbs  displaying  the  Sun-Soaring  Eagle  of  Hohen- 
stauffen. 

Then,  on  a  black  stallion,  docile  to  the  hand  and  impatient 
of  the  spur,  Conradino  of  Swabia  hove  into  sight,  beside  the 
friend  of  his  youth,  Frederick  of  Austria. 

They  rode  in  advance  of  the  elite  of  the  army,  some  two 
thousand  men  in  gleaming  chain-mail.  Conrad  and  Marino 
Capece  followed  hard  on  then"  heels  with  one  thousand  heavy 
infantry  and  a  company  of  Saracen  archers.  Then  came  Gal- 
vano  Lancia  with  the  heavy  armament,  men  from  the  North, 
carrying  huge  battle-axes  in  addition  to  then*  other  weapons. 

146 


THE   WHITE    LADY 

As  they  slowly  advanced  through  the  great  square  fronting 
the  ancient  Basilica,  a  great  shout  arose  from  the  thousands 
who  lined  the  thoroughfares,  a  counter-blast  to  the  clangor 
of  the  clarions. 

Then  the  whole  host  shouted,  tossed  up  shield  and  lance, 
while  trumpets  and  horns  shrieked  above  the  din. 

On  the  steps  of  houses  and  churches,  in  casements,  doors 
and  windows,  women  waved  kerchiefs  and  scarfs,  their  shrill 
acclaim  mingling  with  the  sounds  of  horn  and  bugle. 

The  tramping  of  thousands  of  steeds  smote  the  bright  air; 
shields  and  surcoats  shone  and  shimmered  under  the  sun- 
fraught  Roman  sky. 

All  the  streets  through  which  the  armament  passed  were 
hung  with  garlands  and  tapestries,  blazing  with  banners,  fes 
tooned  with  flowers  and  gorgeous  ornaments,  re-echoing  with 
peals  of  laughter  and  ribaldry  and  roaring  music. 

For  the  fickle  Romans  gave  free  rein  to  their  joy  of  being  rid 
of  Anjou's  presence,  and  the  sober  and  pedantic  Northmen 
viewed  with  amaze  this  manifestation  of  the  Southern  tempera 
ment,  the  reflex,  as  it  were,  of  a  clioe  which  had  lured  to 
perdition  so  many  of  their  own,  who  had  not  withstood  the 
blandishments  of  the  Sorceress. 

And  the  Romans,  revelling  in  their  own  exuberant  gaiety, 
forgetful  of  yesterday,  unmindful  of  the  morrow,  hailed  with 
delight  the  iron-serried  cohorts  from  beyond  the  Alps,  —  till 
the  disappearing  menace  within  their  own  walls  would  cause 
them  to  turn  on  their  deliverers. 

From  the  summits  of  his  castle  on  the  well-nigh  impreg 
nable  heights  of  Viterbo,  Pope  Clement  IV  had  witnessed  the 
passing  of  the  Swabian  host,  and  his  eyes,  undimmed  by  age, 
had  marked  the  persons  and  the  quality  of  the  leaders.  And, 
turning  to  one  of  his  attendants,  who  leaned  by  his  side  over 
the  ramparts  to  scan  more  minutely  the  Northern  armament, 
he  had  spoken  the  memorable  words :  "  Truly,  like  two  lambs, 

147 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

wreathed  for  the  sacrifice,  they  are  journeying  towards  their 
fate."  - 

To  the  casual  observer,  —  if,  indeed,  there  was  such  a  one 
in  the  Rome  of  those  days,  —  it  must  indeed  have  appeared 
a  strange  phenomenon  that  Conradino  was  surrounded  al 
most  entirely  by  Italians,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two 
leaders  whose  contingents  the  narrow  and  parsimonious  policy 
of  Duke  Goerz  of  the  Tyrol  had  not  been  able  to  shake  in 
their  loyalty,  when  he  recalled  his  own  contingents  for  want 
of  pay. 

But  the  popular  enthusiasm  swept  everything  before  it,  and 
Conradino's  march  to  the  Capitol,  where  he  was  to  be  tendered 
the  keys  of  the  city  by  the  Senator  of  Rome,  Prince  Enrico  of 
Castile,  was  one  continuous  triumph.  — 

As  one  in  a  dream,  Francesco  continued  to  gaze  after  the 
imperial  cavalcade  as  it  swept  past  with  its  gold  and  glitter 
and  tinsel  and  the  thunderous  hoof-beats  of  a  thousand  steeds. 
As  one  in  a  dream,  he  kept  gazing  at  the  gold-embroidered 
mantles,  the  flash  of  dagger-hilts,  the  gleam  of  chain-mail,  the 
waving  plumes,  the  prancing  steeds. 

The  procession  swept  by  him,  as  the  phantasmagoria  of  a 
dream;  but,  after  it  had  passed,  one  apparition  continued  to 
stand  forth. 

He  never  forgot  that  face. 

To  him  it  was  all  that  was  beautiful  and  regal,  framed  in 
its  soft,  golden  hair,  with  its  tender  blue  eyes,  its  smiling  lips. 
A  slender  youth,  barely  eighteen  years  of  age,  with  the  eyes  of 
a  dreamer,  Conradino  was  possessed  of  an  exaltation  which 
blinded  him  to  the  perils  of  the  situation,  intoxicating  his 
ambition,  —  a  quaint  combination  of  the  mystic  lore  of  his 
times,  of  which  Francesco  felt  himself  to  be  his  other  Ego. 

The  crowds  had  dispersed  by  degrees,  sweeping  in  the  wake 
of  the  Swabian  host  towards  the  Capitol. 

And  Francesco  stared  motionless  into  space. 

148 


THE    WHITE    LADY 

Was  he  indeed  cast  out  from  the  communion  of  the  world, 
from  the  contact  of  the  living? 

Had  a  mocking  fate  but  cast  him  on  the  shores  of  life,  that 
he  might  stand  idly  by,  watching  the  waves  bounding,  leaping 
over  each  other? 

He  felt  as  one  enslaved,  his  will-power  paralyzed. 

Yonder,  where  the  setting  sun  spun  golden  vapors  round 
the  summits  of  the  Capitoline  Hillj  there  was  the  trend  of  a 
high,  self-conscious  purpose,  as  revealed  in  the  impending 
death-struggle  for  the  highest  ideals  of  mankind. 

What  had  he  to  oppose  it? 

What  great  aim  atoned  for  the  agony  of  his  transformation? 

The  restitution  of  papacy?  The  glory  of  the  Church?  The 
vindication  of  a  crime?  The  toleration  of  a  despot? 

Francesco's  passionate  nature  might  have  been  guided 
aright  by  a  controlling  affection,  such  as  he  could  nevermore 
find  in  his  present  estate. 

Slowly,  as  one  wrapped  in  a  dream,  gazing  neither  right  nor 
left,  he  permitted  himself  to  be  swept  along  with  the  crowds, 
past  monuments,  tombs  and  the  desolate  grandeur  of  the 
Forum,  and  as  one  enthralled,  began  the  ascent  of  the  Capi 
toline  Hill. 


149 


CHAPTER  II 


THE   FEAST   AT   THE   CAPITOL 


HEN  darkness  had  fallen  on 
the  Capitoline  Hill,  the  old 
palace  of  the  Caesars  seemed  to 
waken  to  a  semblance  of  new 
life.  In  the  gorgeous  reception 
hall  a  splendid  spectacle  awaited 
the  guests.  The  richly  dressed 
crowds  buzzed  like  swarms  of 
bees.  Their  attires  were  iri 
descent,  gorgeous  in  the  fash 
ions  borrowed  from  many  lands.  The  enslavement  of  Italy 
and  the  invasion  of  foreigners  could  be  read  in  the  garbs  of 
the  Romans.  The  robes  of  the  women,  a  slavish  imitation 
of  the  Byzantine  fashion,  hung  straight  as  tapestries,  stiff  with 
gold  brocades. 

Prince  Enrico  of  Castile,  the  Senator  of  Rome,  had  arranged 
a  festival  in  honor  of  Conradino,  such  as  the  deserted  halls 
of  the  imperial  palace  on  the  Capitoline  had  not  witnessed  in 
centuries. 

It  was  a  festival  hitherto  unequalled  in  Rome. 
The  walls  of  the  great  reception  hall  were  decorated  with 
garlands  and  festoons  of  flowers ;  the  soft  lustre  of  the  candel 
abra  was  reflected  in  tall  Venetian  mirrors,  brought  from 
Murano  for  this  occasion.  Niches  filled  with  orange-trees, 
artificial  grottoes  adorned  with  shells,  in  the  midst  of  which 
fountains  sent  then"  iridescent  spray  into  the  branches  of  tall 
cypress-trees  and  oleanders,  met  the  gaze  on  every  turn. 

150 


THE    FEAST    AT    THE    CAPITOL 

But  the  central  part  of  the  festival  was  the  gigantic  hall, 
over  which  the  girandoles  diffused  a  sea  of  light.  Costly  Orien 
tal  carpets  covered  the  mosaic  floor,  and  the  ceiling  represented 
the  thousand-starred  arch  of  heaven.  Here,  too,  as  in  the 
garden,  niches  and  grottoes  were  everywhere  to  be  found, 
where  one,  in  the  midst  of  the  constantly  moving  crowd,  could 
enjoy  quiet  and  repose. 

In  the  great  hall  there  were  assembled  the  first  Ghibelline 
families  in  Rome,  the  Colonna,  Cavalli,  Gaetani,  the  Massimi 
and  Stefaneschi;  the  Frangipani  of  Astura,  the  Pierleoni,  the 
Savelli,  and  the  Annibaldi,  whose  chief  had  fallen  side  by  side 
with  Manfred  in  the  fateful  battle  of  Benevento.  — 

A  loud  fanfare  of  trumpets  and  horns  announced  at  last  the 
arrival  of  Conradino,  and  his  bearing,  as  he  entered  the  an 
cient  halls  of  the  Caesars,  was  indeed  that  of  one  coming  into 
his  own. 

He  was  surrounded  by  Giordano  and  Galvano  Lancia,  Con 
rad  and  Marino  Capece,  John  de  Pietro,  John  of  Procida,  who 
had  come  expressly  from  Palermo  to  offer  homage  to  the  son 
of  his  emperor;  Count  Hirnsius,  Gerhardt  Donoratico  of  Pisa, 
Thomas  Aquino,  Count  Meinhardt  of  Castanea,  Frederick  of 
Austria,  Prince  Raymond  of  Montferrat,  Frederick  of  Antioch 
and  Dom  Pietro  Loria,  Grand  Admiral  of  King  Peter  of  Aragon. 
The  Viceroy  of  Apulia  and  the  Apulian  barons  followed  closely 
in  their  wake.  - 

Six  senators,  headed  by  Don  Enrico  of  Castile,  now  advanced, 
carrying  between  them  on  a  purple  velvet  cushion  the  keys  of 
the  city. 

In  a  kneeling  position  they  presented  them  to  Conradino, 
who  in  turn  gave  them  in  charge  of  the  commander-in-chief 
of  his  army,  while  loud  acclaim  shook  the  foundations  of  the 
rock,  unmoved  by  the  assaults  of  centuries. 

After  the  banquet  had  been  served  and  the  guests  had  arisen 
from  the  festal  board,  Prince  Enrico  of  Castile  claimed  the 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

privilege  of  conducting  the  exalted  guest  through  the  halls 
of  the  Capitoline  palace. 

They  had  not  advanced  very  far  when  the  quick  eye  of  the 
Senator  of  Rome  lighted  upon  an  individual  who  had  been 
watching  their  advance  from  his  concealment  among  the 
shrubbery. 

It  was  a  man,  tall,  lean,  with  prominent  shoulders,  glittering 
eyes  and  a  thin,  straight  mouth.  The  black  hair  was  cropped 
close  to  the  massive  head.  The  eyes  were  bead-like,  bright 
as  polished  steel.  The  brows  met  in  a  straight  black  line  over 
the  nose. 

"  My  Lord  Frangipani  —  " 

The  Lord  of  Astura  turned.  Don  Enrico  presented  him  to 
the  King  of  the  Germans.  Conradino  extended  his  hand. 

"  We  are  well  pleased  to  count  you  among  our  loyal  friends 
and  adherents,  my  Lord  Frangipani,"  Conradino  said  with 
warmth.  "  Our  illustrious  grandsire  himself  has  bestowed 
upon  you  the  insignia  of  knighthood;  it  is  a  tie  which  should 
bind  us  for  aye  and  ever!  " 

The  Frangipani  grasped  the  proffered  hand,  bending  low 
as  he  replied: 

"  I  count  it  great  honor  that  King  Conradino  acknowledges 
the  bonds  which  bind  the  house  of  Frangipani  to  the  house  of 
Swabia.  May  I  be  afforded  the  opportunity  to  prove  my  de 
votion  towards  the  grandson  of  my  glorious  emperor !  " 

While  Conradino's  gaze  was  resting  upon  the  Lord  of 
Astura,  there  came  to  him  a  sensation,  strange  as  it  was 
fleeting. 

He  felt  singularly  repelled  by  the  voice  and  glance  of  the 
baron,  notwithstanding  the  latter  having  received  his  school 
ing  at  the  brilliant  court  of  Emperor  Frederick  at  Castel  Fior- 
entino. 

In  order  to  overcome  this  sensation,  Conradino  turned  to 
the  Roman. 

152 


"  You  are  the  Lord  of  Astura,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  told 
your  castello  defends  the  coast!  "- 

"  Some  fifty  leagues  to  southward,  Astura  rises  sea-washed 
upon  its  impregnable  rock !  "  Giovanni  Frangipani  replied,  not 
without  self-conscious  pride.  "  Corsairs  and  Saracens  have 
dashed  themselves  in  vain  against  its  granite  walls.  The  bul 
wark  of  Terra  di  Lavoro,  I  hold  castello  and  port  as  hereditary 
fief  of  Emperor  Frederick !  " 

"  A  port  and  castello  near  Rome !  "  Conradino  said  with  a 
quick  lift  of  speech.  "  My  imperial  grandsire  did  well  to  en 
trust  them  to  so  faithful  a  subject.  Who  knows  but  that  at 
some  day  I  too  shall  embark  at  Astura?  " 

He  spoke  the  fateful  words  and  shivered. 

It  was  as  if  the  cold  air  of  a  burial  vault  had  fanned  his 
cheeks.  — 

Impelled  hither  by  a  force  beyond  his  control,  Francesco 
instinctively  shrank  from  mingling  with  the  festive  crowds. 
The  one  desire  of  his  life  fulfilled,  to  see  face  to  face  Con 
radino,  the  idol  of  his  youthful  dreams,  he  would  take  his 
weary  feet  away  and  continue  upon  his  journey  towards  an 
unknown  destiny. 

Opposing  thoughts  were  flying  towards  contrary  poles  of  his 
horizon. 

On  the  one  hand,  the  old  longing  for  the  world,  a  world  of 
action,  had  risen  strangely  from  forgotten  depths.  Was  this 
perchance  the  goal  to  which  his  present  life  was  leading?  In 
the  midst  of  his  ruminations  he  heard  the  silvery  mirth  of 
Ilaria  from  the  depths  of  the  gardens,  and  the  pain  itself  seemed 
to  guide  his  steps  towards  her.  He  had  always  thought  her 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  beautiful  women,  though  with  them 
Italy  blossomed  as  a  garden. 

He  again  remembered  the  night  he  first  saw  her,  how  the 
exquisite  purity  of  her  face  distinguished  her  from  the  glitter 
ing  throng  among  which  she  moved.  He  even  remembered 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

now  in  what  graceful  folds  her  white  robe  fell  from  the 
square  cut  neck  to  her  feet,  how  the  over-sleeves  hung  open 
from  the  shoulders,  revealing  the  snowy  whiteness  of  her 
arms. 

He  remembered  how  that  night  he  had  refused  to  go  singing 
carnival  songs  with  the  youths  of  the  court;  how  they,  heated 
with  wine,  had  jeered  and  taunted  him,  asking  if,  perchance, 
he  was  turning  into  a  pious  monk. 

Suddenly  in  his  waking  dream  he  found  himself  at  Monte 
Cassino  in  the  cell  of  the  Prior.  And  the  Prior  talked  and 
talked  about  the  sins  of  the  world,  and  the  lust  of  the  flesh, 
and  of  prayers  and  penances.  How,  as  he  sat  there  in  grim 
silence,  the  Prior  thought  he  was  listening,  instead  of  thinking 
of  a  smile  of  divine  sweetness,  and  a  faker  face  than  that  of 
the  Virgin  looking  out  at  him  from  the  mural  painting  of  Masac- 
cio.  And  how  the  Prior  would  have  crossed  himself  and 
implored  protection  from  the  snares  of  Satan,  had  he  known 
that  Francesco's  thoughts  were  of  a  woman.  How,  when  he 
went  to  his  own  cell  that  night,  when  he  lay  down  on  the  bare 
hard  boards,  that  served  for  bed  and  pillow,  a  swift  revulsion 
of  feeling  had  come  over  him. 

At  that  moment  Francesco  felt  that,  wherever  he  went,  he 
would  bear  his  shadow  with  him  none  the  less  surely,  because 
its  presence  might  be  hidden  by  the  general  negative  of  that 
sunlight,  which  so  inexorably  illumined  every  detail  of  the 
road  that  lay  before  him. 

The  shadow! 

Was  he  indeed  a  living  soul  created  hi  the  image  of  his 
Maker,  or  an  echo  merely  shouted  by  some  fiend  in  derision, 
destined  to  wander  forever  disconsolate  among  the  waste 
places,  seeking  and  rinding  not?  — 

Now  he  saw  Ilaria  come  up  the  moonlit  path. 

For  a  moment  he  wavered,  trembling  in  every  limb.  Then 
the  memory  of  their  meeting  at  the  fountain  swept  over  him 

154 


THE    FEAST    AT    THE    CAPITOL 

in  a  mighty  wave.  He  called  to  mind  the  sweet  smile  of  long 
ago,  the  touch  of  her  hands. 

No  longer  master  of  his  feelings,  he  took  a  step  forward,  his 
eyes,  straining  into  the  night,  riveted  upon  her.  There  was  a 
hint  of  melancholy  in  the  curve  about  the  mouth  and  the  far- 
seeing  eyes. 

Another  moment  and  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Ilaria  Caselli. 

As  she  noted  the  shadow  across  her  path,  she  paused  sharply, 
then,  as  their  eyes  met,  he  saw  the  flowing  motion  of  her  figure 
stiffening  into  curves  that  lent  a  suggestion  of  resistance. 
He  caught  the  momentary  impatience  of  her  brow  and  the 
start  of  resentment  in  her  eyes. 

His  purpose  vanquished,  he  stood  mute  in  the  face  of  the 
striking  chill  of  her  pride. 

For  a  moment  they  regarded  each  other  in  silence,  a  silence 
that  resembled  the  settling  waters  after  the  plunging  of  a 
stone. 

Her  face  was  very  white,  and  her  eyes,  as  they  met  his, 
shone  with  an  almost  supernatural  lustre. 

Yet  this  silence  was  putting  the  two  asunder,  contrasting 
them  vividly,  balancing  them  one  against  the  other. 

The  repose  and  the  self-confidence  ran  all  towards  the 
woman. 

Her  face  waited. 

She  seemed  to  look  down  from  above  on  Francesco  the 
monk. 

A  moment  ago  he  had  had  so  much  to  say,  and  now  his  own 
voicelessness  begot  anger  and  rebellion. 

Ilaria  was  looking  at  him,  as  if  she  saw  something,  and 
nothing,  and  Francesco  felt  that  her  eyes  called  him  a  fool. 
Her  air  of  aloofness,  as  of  standing  above  some  utterly  imper 
sonal  matter,  put  the  man  under  her  feet. 

She  could  not  have  trampled  upon  Him  more  victoriously 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

than  by  displaying  the  utter  indifference  with  which  she  seemed 
to  rediscover  his  existence. 

For  a  moment,  that  seemed  interminable,  they  stood  at 
gaze,  as  if  some  hidden  hand  had  been  laid  upon  them,  arrest 
ing  every  movement. 

Then  her  lips  parted  slightly. 

"Faithless!" 

Then  she  was  gone.  — 

How  long  Francesco  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  he  did 
not  know. 

He  felt  as  one  who  has  walked  into  a  place,  where  all  the 
doors  were  closed,  where  calm,  contemptuous  faces  were 
watching  him  from  the  windows. 

His  chief  desire  now  was  to  get  away  from  Rome  as  quickly 
as  possible.  The  Pontiff  was  at  Viterbo.  Thither  he  would 
travel  with  the  dawn.  He  was  tired  of  humiliations.  Restless 
and  baffled  though  he  felt  in  his  effort  to  conform  his  thoughts 
to  the  life  he  was  henceforth  to  lead,  he  resented  even  com 
passion. 

The  moon  had  risen  higher  and  the  sky  was  sprinkled  with 
myriads  of  stars. 

Francesco  stood  leaning  against  the  fountain,  and  heard  the 
bells  on  distant  Aventine  tolling  through  the  night.  Their 
music  filled  the  air.  He  tried  to  hush  the  anxiety  of  his  heart 
by  prayer.  It  was  in  vain. 

He  felt  the  love  for  the  friends  of  his  youth  turning  slowly 
into  hate.  Once  again  he  had  proved  himself,  once  again  he 
had  been  crucified  on  the  altar  of  Duty ! 

Let  the  stormy  billows  of  life  then  sweep  him  onward  to 
whatever  destiny  a  dark  fate  had  consigned  him!  Since  loy 
alty  had  proved  his  undoing,  why  cling  to  outward  show?  — 

How  perfect  was  the  night! 

The  distant  hillsides  were  hushed.  The  very  leaves  were 
still.  The  olive  woods  shone  silvery  in  the  moonlight! 

156 


THE    FEAST    AT    THE    CAPITOL 

The  splashing  of  the  fountains  came  clear  to  him  in  the  in 
tense  stillness.  In  the  moonlight  the  roses  were  nodding  to 
each  other  and  the  perfume  of  magnolias  permeated  the 
balmy  night  air.  Farther  in  the  shade  he  could  see  the  Luc- 
ciola,  in  whose  heart  were  hidden  the  love-words  caught  from 
lovers'  lips,  —  what  a  mission  for  a  flower !  On  the  highroad 
he  heard  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet.  They  came  nearer,  stopped, 
then  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Afraid  even  to  move  Francesco  peered  through  the  leaves. 

But  the  only  sound  he  could  hear  was  the  beating  of  his  own 
heart. 

He  stood  alone  in  the  garden. 

Love  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  the  eyes  of  life,  and  the 
world  seemed  to  shiver  in  disillusionment. 

A  great  weariness  came  to  him,  a  weariness  of  the  heart, 
spreading  with  the  swiftness  of  poison  in  the  blood.  His  head 
drooped,  as  if  the  moonlight  had  wilted  the  strong  neck.  His 
eyes  lost  their  lustre  of  haughtiness  and  fell  into  a  vague, 
brooding  stare.  He  was  dull  and  weary;  but  yesterday  he 
had  thought  well  of  the  world;  there  seemed  nor  valor,  nor 
pity,  anywhere.  — 

Yet  Francesco  felt  that  this  state  could  not  endure. 

Purposeless  he  had  drifted  on  the  waves  of  destiny,  the  blind 
victim  of  another's  will.  Prayers  and  penances  had  not  availed 
to  rouse  him  to  the  acceptance  of  his  fate. 

There  must  be  something  to  fill  out  his  life,  some  great 
palpable  purpose  to  which  he  would  devote  himself,  some 
high  mission,  in  the  fulfilment  of  which  the  consciousness  of 
a  false  existence  would  become  gradually  blurred,  and  eventu 
ally  wiped  out. 

His  whole  nature  craved  for  action;  the  still  life  of  the 
cloister,  far  from  extinguishing  the  smouldering  fire,  had  kept 
it  alive  with  the  fuel  of  dead  hopes  and  broken  ambitions. 

What  mattered  it  in  the  end  in  whose  cause  he  fought  and 

157 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

bled,  so  he  came  out  from  under  the  dreary  cloud  of  passive 
endurance,  a  slow  paralysis  of  all  that  was  best  of  him? 

His  love  for  Ilaria  had  remained  with  him,  had  haunted  him 
all  these  long  and  weary  months.  He  felt  it  would  remain 
with  huii  forever,  even  though  he  banished  her  image  from 
his  heart.  And  banish  it  he  must!  He  must  shake  off  the 
dreamer,  he  must  look  life  in  the  face.  Boldly  he  must  enter 
the  arena  in  the  unequal  fight. 

"  Ave  Domina,  morituri  te  salutant !  "  — 

The  thought  seemed  to  give  him  back  some  of  his  former 
elasticity.  All  wavering  was  at  an  end.  The  road  seemed 
dark.  Yet  there  must  be  a  way. 

Could  he  but  accomplish  some  great  deed,  could  he  but 
make  a  name  for  himself,  but  prove  himself  worthy  of  the 
love  she  bore  him  once,  —  that,  at  least,  would  be  atone 
ment! 

A  higher  light  gleamed  in  Francesco's  eyes,  and  he  heaved 
a  great  sigh  as  he  was  about  to  step  into  the  clearing,  when 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  caused  him  to  pause  and 
listen. 

They  seemed  to  come  in  his  direction. 

In  the  brilliant  moonlight  he  recognized  Conradino  and 
Frederick  of  Austria,  Conrad  Capece  and  the  brothers  Lancia. 
They  had  been  making  the  rounds  of  the  gardens  and  were 
returning  to  the  palace.  In  the  gaunt  warrior  who  followed 
in  their  wake  he  recognized  the  Count  Palatine. 

Where  the  glistening  gravel  paths  branched  off,  leading 
into  different  parts  of  the  blossoming  wilderness,  they  were 
joined  by  another  group.  Francesco  recognized  among  them 
Raniero  Frangipani,  and  the  ground  began  to  burn  under  his 
feet. 

A  thousand  invisible  eyes  seemed  to  peer  at  him  in  his  con 
cealment;  a  thousand  invisible  fingers  seemed  to  point  towards 
him,  —  the  renegade. 

158 


THE    FEAST    AT    THE    CAPITOL 

They  were  coming  nearer.  Now  he  could  hear  the  sound 
of  their  voices.  There  was  no  further  doubt;  they  were 
coming  in  his  direction. 

It  was  too  late  to  retrace  his  steps.  If  he  remained  where 
he  stood,  they  might  pass  him  unheeded,  unseen.  At  this 
moment  Francesco  dreaded  even  the  sound  of  a  human  voice, 
the  sight  of  a  human  face.  On  the  pinnacle  of  a  high  resolve 
he  but  craved  to  escape  unnoticed,  unseen,  to  be  spared 
further  humiliation. 

Following  a  strange,  inexplicable  impulse,  or  seized  with  a 
sudden  irresistible  panic,  which  mocked  his  intentions  to 
scorn,  he  started  to  retreat  in  an  opposite  direction,  when  a 
treacherous  moonbeam  revealed  him  to  the  eye  of  Raniero 
Frangipani. 

Two  mighty  bounds  brought  him  to  his  side,  and  ere  Fran 
cesco  knew  what  was  happening,  he  found  himself  dragged 
over  the  greensward  and  stood  pale  and  trembling  before  the 
assembled  company. 

Conradino  had  paused  precipitately,  as  if  some  bird  of  evil 
omen  had  crossed  his  path.  The  others  immediately  sur 
rounded  Francesco,  who  was  writhing  in  the  futile  endeavor 
to  release  himself  from  the  grip  which  was  upon  him.  In  the 
struggle  the  cowl  had  dropped  back,  revealing  Francesco's 
features,  set  and  deadly  pale,  and  the  cry:  "  A  monk!  "  was 
not  for  the  cloth,  but  him  it  covered. 

Two  men  had  uttered  it  as  with  one  voice,  the  Viceroy  of 
Apulia  and  the  Count  Palatine,  while  in  the  faces  of  their  com 
panions  Francesco  read  only  loathing  and  hatred,  such  as  any 
traitor  would  inspire. 

The  Frangipani  released  his  victim  with  a  reluctant  scowl. 

Conrad  Capece  seized  Francesco  by  the  shoulders  and 
looked  into  his  face. 

He  felt  moved  despite  himself  by  the  expression  of  petrified 
grief  which  he  read  in  the  face  of  the  youth,  who,  unable  longer 

159 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

to  endure  the  glances  of  hatred  which  he  instinctively  felt 
resting  upon  him,  had  dropped  his  gaze. 

"  What  is  your  purpose  here?  "  the  Apulian  queried  sternly. 

Twice,  in  the  thrall  of  conflicting  emotions,  Francesco  started 
to  reply,  a  hot  wave  of  shame  chasing  the  pallor  from  his  cheeks. 

The  words  died  on  his  lips. 

At  last,  with  a  supreme  effort,  throwing  back  his  head  as 
in  mute  defiance,  he  replied: 

"  My  business  is  with  the  Pontiff!  " 

"  The  business  of  a  traitor,  —  a  spy!  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Raniero  Frangipani  that  had  fallen 
sharply  on  his  ear. 

Francesco  made  no  reply.  Only  he  seemed  to  grow  a  shade 
more  gray. 

In  his  stead  spoke  Don  Enrico,  the  Senator  of  Rome,  who  had 
stepped  to  the  Viceroy's  side. 

"  It  must  have  been  known  to  you  that  the  Pontiff  has 
abandoned  the  city  and  has  fled  to  Viterbo.  Do  not  try  to 
deceive  us !  We  shall  find  means  to  learn  the  truth !  " 

The  threatening  tenor  of  the  Spaniard's  voice  recalled 
Francesco  to  himself.  He  turned  to  Capece  who  was  regarding 
him  gloomily. 

"  My  lord,  I  have  never  spoken  a  falsehood.  I  arrived  in 
Rome  but  yesterday  from  Monte  Cassino.  Of  the  state  of  the 
city  I  knew  nothing.  My  business  is  with  the  Pontiff." 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  depart  on  learning  that  Clement  and 
the  Provencals  have  fled?  " 

A  choking  sensation  came  to  Francesco.  His  hand  went 
to  his  throat. 

The  Viceroy  saw  and  understood. 

With  a  sweep  of  the  hand  he  bade  the  others  stand  aside. 

"Go!"  —  The  command  was  tinged  with  scorn  and  con 
tempt. 

"  I  vouch  for  this  monk !  "  Francesco  heard  him  address  the 

1 60 


THE    FEAST    AT   THE    CAPITOL 

Senator  of  Rome,  as  with  head  bowed  down  he  walked  slowly 
away.  But  with  a  sharp  pang  another  voice  smote  his  unwit 
tingly  listening  ear. 

"  A  renegade !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Raniero  Frangipani.  - 

On  that  night,  when  Francesco  returned  to  the  inn  and  had 
repaired  to  his  chamber,  he  lay  on  his  bed  without  moving, 
without  even  thinking. 

He  had  passed  into  a  strange,  half-apathetic  state,  in  which 
his  own  misery  was  hardly  more  to  him  than  a  dull  and  mechan 
ical  weight,  pressing  on  some  wooden  thing  that  had  forgotten 
to  be  a  soul. 

In  truth,  it  seemed  of  little  consequence  how  all  ended.  The 
one  thing  that  mattered  to  any  sentient  being,  was  to  be  spared 
the  unbearable  pain. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  left  some  terrible  shadow  of 
himself,  some  ghostly  trail  of  his  personality,  to  haunt  the 
room.  He  sat  trembling  and  cowering,  not  daring  to  look  up, 
lest  he  should  see  the  phantom  presence  of  his  other  self. 

At  last  the  pain  worked  as  its  own  anaesthetic. 

Francesco's  eyelids  drooped  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  and 
dreamless  sleep. 


161 


CHAPTER  III 


QUAINT   WAYFARERS 

ARLY  on  the  following  morning 
Francesco  left  Rome  through  the 
ancient  Flaminian  gate  and 
started  upon  his  journey  towards 
Viterbo. 

It  was  a  fair  morning,  golden 
and  light. 

Over  the  Campagna  hung 
white  mists,  that  hovered  long 
est  where  the  Tiber  rolled;  but 
over  the  green  mountains  of  Rocca  Romana  the  woods  were 
alight  with  sunbeams  and  the  glancing  streams  ran  sparkling 
through  meadows,  starred  with  dragon-flower  and  cyclamen, 
and  shaded  with  heavy  boughs  of  beach  and  chestnut. 

In  lieu  of  following  the  Via  Aurelia,  where  it  wound  towards 
the  coast  by  Santa  Marmella  and  Santa  Severa  and  mediaeval 
Palo,  and  the  volcanic  soil  and  the  steep  ravines  by  Cervetri, 
where  the  long  avenues  of  cliff  sepulchres  are  all  that  remain 
tc  show  the  site  of  ancient  Caere,  Francesco  pursued  the  beaten 
cattle-tracks,  avoiding  the  Maccarese  marshes  and  following 
the  course  of  the  Aerone  as  far  as  the  high  cliffs,  up  by  for 
saken  Galera.  And  soon  the  downs  and  moors,  the  tumuli 
and  tombs  and  the  heaving  expanse  of  the  Roman  Campagna 
lay  behind  him,  and  with  them  the  fear  of  encountering  rov 
ing  companies  of  Provencals,  which  might  still  remain  in 
these  regions. 

It  was  a  morning  such  as  is  only  seen  in  Southern  climes, 

162 


QUAINT    WAYFARERS 

and  on  similar  elevations ;  the  air  so  pure  and  bright  that  every 
object  appeared  translucent. 

The  valley  into  which  Francesco  descended,  although  par 
tially  veiled  in  mists,  began  to  disclose  its  variety  and  richness, 
contrasting  strangely  with  the  undulating  monotony  of  the 
Campagna,  which  lay  behind  him.  Little  villages  appeared, 
nestling  on  the  craggy  bases  of  the  mountains,  castles  and 
watch-towers  rose  on  remote  pinnacles ;  forests  of  oak  and  pine 
waved  freshly  in  the  morning  wind;  pastures  of  brightest 
emerald  bordered  the  river;  every  rock  displayed  in  its  nooks 
and  crevices  wild-flowers  of  brilliant  hues;  every  breath 
wafted  across  the  vale  brought  new  intoxicating  odors. 

The  very  cataract  in  the  distance,  though  lost  in  snowy 
mists,  wore  a  diadem,  a  rainbow  of  palest  pink  and  azure, 
like  a  semi-circular  spectral  bridge. 

Francesco  chose  the  wider  path,  and  lost  himself  in  a  tangled 
underbrush  of  myrtle,  stunted  vines  and  high  weeds,  while 
the  loftier  forest-trees  continually  showered  their  golden  dew 
upon  him,  as  he  passed  under  their  odorous,  lightly-swaying 
branches. 

If  the  life  at  Monte  Cassino  had  seemed  hard  and  unevent 
ful,  these  few  days  in  the  larger,  wider  world  had  crowded 
experiences  upon  Francesco  with  an  impetuosity  that  had  left 
him  a  little  bewildered.  Hungry  for  a  heart,  his  soul,  bleeding 
under  the  leash  of  Fate,  looked  down  upon  life  as  from  an 
isolation,  and  found  it  as  desolate  and  empty  as  the  most 
ascetic  soul  might  have  desired. 

Heartening  himself,  he  tried  to  see  some  reasonable  pur 
pose  linking  all  these  happenings.  He  was  being  tempted  and 
ill-used  for  the  sake  of  a  finer  patience  and  stronger  discipline, 
serving  his  novitiate  in  a  rougher  and  more  riotous  house, 
meeting  winds  that  had  not  reached  him  behind  the  walls  of 
Monte  Cassino. 

He  had  taken  his  discipline,  his  schooling  and  his  vows  as  a 

163 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

matter  that  was  inevitable.  But  the  lure  of  the  outer  world, 
combined  with  the  memories  of  the  past,  had  thrummed  in 
cessantly  and  insistently  against  the  armor  of  his  cowl. 

And  as,  with  the  silence  of  a  great  resolve,  he  pushed  slowly 
along  his  solitary  path,  he  wondered  vaguely  at  the  ultimate 
goal. 

He  had  been  taught  that  a  monk  should  accept  all  the  or 
dinances  and  ask  no  questions,  clasping  an  austere  docility 
like  a  girdle  about  his  loins. 

Nevertheless,  his  eyes  lost  their  lustre,  as  he  remembered 
the  scenes  of  the  past  night,  and  they  fell  into  a  vague  brood 
ing  stare. 

Yet  he  no  longer  felt  angry  with  those  who  had  turned  from 
him  in  disdain.  For  a  tune  the  fire  in  his  heart  had  sunk  too 
low  even  for  anger.  He  was  dull  and  weary  and  a  little  stunned 
by  the  night's  bafflings,  and  the  collapse  of  his  resolves. 

He  was  fighting  against  destiny,  and  the  wave  was  mightier 
than  the  vessel  that  had  ventured  upon  it. 

Francesco  had  started  out  before  dawn,  brushing  the  dew 
from  the  meadow-grass  and  following  the  misty  twilight  track 
of  a  brook  that  traced  its  serpentine  course  through  the  forest 
glades.  The  songs  of  birds  went  throbbing  through  the  wood 
land. 

Francesco  had  come  to  a  place  where  four  ways  met,  with  a 
stone  cross  standing  on  a  hillock,  when  out  of  the  dusk  of  the 
forest  aisles  rode  the  portly  bulk  of  a  man,  who  was  hardly 
astir  so  early  in  order  to  admire  the  beauties  of  the  dawn,  for 
he  came  along  the  greensward  with  the  gait  of  one  who 
combines  caution  with  alertness. 

No  sooner  had  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  laid  eyes  upon  Francesco 
than  he  broke  out  into  a  glad  roar. 

"  Whither  are  you  bound  so  lone  and  so  early?  "  he  bellowed 
after  mutual  greeting.  "  Has  the  soil  of  Rome  ignited  under 
your  holy  feet?  " 

164 


QUAINT    WAYFARERS 

"  I  am  bound  for  Viterbo,"  Francesco  replied,  glad  to  have 
the  monotony  of  the  journey  and  the  trend  of  his  ruminations 
relieved  by  one  who  had,  at  one  time,  been  of  such  signal 
service  to  him. 

"  And  whither  do  you  travel?  "  he  asked  in  turn. 

"  Every  road  leads  to  Rome,  or  the  devil,"  the  duke  roared 
sagaciously,  "  though  three  days  of  knight-errantry  have 
brought  nothing  but  petticoats.  The  world  is  overburdened 
with  women !  " 

Francesco  nodded,  although  he  was  not  sure  of  the  fact. 

Enlarging  on  the  subject,  as  they  rode  side  by  side,  the  Duke 
of  Spoleto  opined  that  women  were  capable  of  giving  a  deal 
of  trouble. 

Francesco  considered  the  suggestion  with  due  seriousness 
without  venturing  an  expression  on  the  subject. 

"  You  come  from  Rome?  "  the  duke  queried  at  last. 

"  The  Ghibellines  are  in  possession  of  the  town,"  Francesco 
replied  with  heavy  heart. 

The  duke  laughed. 

"  The  spirit  of  chivalry  runs  counter  to  the  growlings  of  the 
fathers,"  he  said,  then  paused  dramatically.  "  Anjou's  name 
is  a  great  and  stinking  sore.  The  whole  country  holds  its  nose 
because  of  its  stench.  As  for  him  who  succeeded  the  Cob 
bler's  son  in  the  chair  of  St.  Peter:  —  he  has  yet  to  learn  that 
self-righteousness  but  needs  the  devil's  kiss  on  the  fore 
head." 

Francesco  made  no  reply. 

The  Duke  of  Spoleto  struck  his  fist  into  his  palm. 

"  Meat,  drink  and  the  love  of  woman,  —  these  things  matter 
more  than  Heaven  and  Hell  and  the  solemn  ravings  of  an 
ascetic  though,"  he  added  meditatively,  "the  holy  fathers 
of  the  Church  teach  that  woman  is  the  seed  and  core  of  all 
evil.  Perchance  we  find  therein  the  reason  of  their  own 
pitiable  estate !  " 

165 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

Francesco  remained  silent  for  a  space,  and  the  duke  gave 
him  a  queer  puzzled  look. 

"  Look  you,"  he  said  at  last,  picturesquely,  "  you  seem  not 
like  other  monks,  fit  but  to  be  made  a  mock  of  by  sluts  who  are 
ready  to  laugh  at  an  ass'  hind  legs.    That  gentry  I  hate,  — 
a  mad  medley  of  the  devil." 

The  duke  spat  with  emphasis  and  rubbed  his  palms. 

Francesco  ventured  to  enlighten  the  lord  of  the  forests. 

"  Yet  —  may  not  one  be  as  one  standing  on  the  threshold, 
with  a  light  in  one's  hand,  illumining  the  path  of  others,  yet 
remaining  himself  in  the  gloom?  " 

The  duke  shrugged. 

"  Sophistry  is  the  devil's  pastime,"  he  said  dubiously. 
"  Many  an  old-established  ghost  there  is,  who  has  never  seen 
such  a  thing  as  an  honest  monk.  And  there  is  nothing  that 
ghosts  love  as  they  do  novelties !  " 

Francesco  pondered  over  the  wisdom  of  his  companion, 
but  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  enlarge  upon  it.  He  was  even 
now  far  from  convinced  of  his  own  sincerity  and  steadfast 
ness  of  purpose.  He  was  as  a  man  shipwrecked  on  a  stormy 
sea,  ever  rocking  with  the  waves,  with  no  beacon-light  beckon 
ing  him  to  shore. 

"  You  have  seen  Conradino?  "  the  duke  said  after  a  pause. 

It  might  have  been  a  statement,  it  might  have  been  a  ques 
tion. 

Francesco  nodded. 

"  Rome  is  as  Ghibelline  at  this  hour  as  if  the  Pope  had  lived 
forever  at  Viterbo!  " 

The  Duke  of  Spoleto  shrugged. 

"  A  passing  fever !  Many  a  one's  soul  is  in  sympathy  with 
one's  snout !  " 

"  You  do  not  love  the  cowl,"  Francesco  ventured,  with  a  side 
long  glance  at  his  companion,  whose  nose  was  in  the  air  as  if 
he  sniffed  countless  monasteries  and  convents. 

166 


QUAINT   WAYFARERS 

After  a  time  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  growled. 

"  If  the  world  were  so  perilous  a  place,  were  it  not  more 
manly  to  go  out  and  conquer  it  than  to  hide  from  it  like  a  girl 
that  bars  the  door  of  the  room?  What  if  Christ  and  the 
apostles  had  shut  themselves  up  in  stone  cells,  the  grim  si 
lence,  the  half-starved  sanctity  of  the  cloister?  What  has  it 
done  for  the  world?  Men  make  a  patchwork  quilt  of  life  and 
call  the  patchwork  religion  and  law!  " 

He  threw  the  challenge  into  the  balance  of  his  discontent. 

Knitting  his  brows,  he  continued : 

"  Speak  not  of  the  Church  to  me !  We  are  bidden  to  per 
ceive  therein  the  body  of  the  Lord  Christ !  But  what  is  it  we 
see?  The  most  complete  mechanism  for  controlling  men, 
manipulated  by  human  intelligence!  You  bid  me  regard  the 
monks  in  Italy  as  holy  people  in  the  midst  of  an  evil  world?  " 

He  paused  with  a  dramatic  gesture. 

"  Rank  heresy!  "  he  bellowed,  answering  his  own  question. 
"  A  Church  with  no  lust  of  temporal  power  is  unthinkable. 
The  Church  requires  a  statesman  for  a  leader,  not  a  saint! 
Behold  your  saintly  Clement  at  Viterbo,  invoking  the  divine 
wrath  upon  the  heads  of  the  just  claimants  of  these  realms! 
Cast  off  the  garb  which  disgraces  your  manhood!  Mount 
a  steed,  challenge  the  devil,  and  slay  dragons!  " 

Francesco  felt  heavy  at  heart. 

An  inner  voice  had  long  apprised  him  that  the  duke  had 
recognized  the  man  beneath  the  garb,  and  that  he  was  address 
ing  his  confidences  to  the  ghost  of  Francesco's  self. 

Now  and  then  he  surprised  a  sidelong  glance,  directed 
towards  himself,  as  if  his  burly  companion  were  appraising  his 
manhood,  his  muscles  and  his  strides. 

His  surmise  fell  not  far  short  of  the  mark,  for  after  a  brief 
silence  the  lord  of  the  woods  spat  vigorously. 

"  And  howsoever  did  you  happen  into  the  cloth?  "  he  blurted 
with  a  blunt  directness,  as  if  eager  to  dispose  of  the  question. 

167 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  That  is  a  long  story,"  Francesco  replied.  "  He,  however, 
who  suffered  the  most  thereby,  was  least  concerned  in  the 
cause ! "  - 

The  duke  nodded,  as  if  the  matter  were  perfectly  clear  to 
huii. 

"  You  were  promised  special  rewards  and  dispensations?  " 

Francesco's  look  of  surprise  informed  the  duke  of  the  nature 
of  the  answer  before  he  spoke. 

"  He  who  would  sup  with  the  Devil  must  needs  have  a  long 
spoon!"  the  duke  roared  sententiously,  and  apparently  well 
pleased  with  his  own  penetration. 

They  now  travelled  upon  a  more  densely  populated  tract; 
they  passed  wayfarers  and  pilgrims;  great  folk  on  horseback 
with  little  folk  licking  their  stirrup. 

They  passed  an  old  crone  at  the  roadside,  eating  her  meagre 
meal  out  of  a  basket.  Her  fingers  were  like  claws;  her  eyes 
were  half-shut  and  she  had  wisps  of  hair  on  her  chin.  When 
she  saw  the  twain,  she  scratched  her  chin  with  a  talon  and 
begged  Francesco  for  a  blessing,  which  the  latter  gave,  while 
the  duke  shouted: 

"  Shave  your  chin,  old  fool!    Shave  your  chin!  " 

Two  hairy  beggars,  brandishing  cudgels,  emerged  from  the 
thicket. 

No  sooner  did  they  lay  eyes  on  the  duke,  than  they  bounded 
down  the  road  and  out  of  sight. 

The  Duke  of  Spoleto  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  like  a 
woodpecker. 

They  passed  two  howl-women,  making  for  a  near-by  castle 
and  practising  their  doleful  chants. 

The  duke  greeted  them  with  a  grotesque  bow. 

"  Why  so  joyful,  fascinating  graces?  "  he  bellowed  through 
his  auburn  bristles.  "  Is  the  fiend  assembling  a  chorus  in 
these  regions,  to  lead  it  in  procession  to  hell?  I  commend  his 
taste!" 

168 


QUAINT    WAYFARERS 

The  howl-women  gibbered  some  inarticulate  response  and 
blew  down  the  road,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  duke. 

A  fat  reeve  with  heavy  saddle-bags  and  a  fiery  face  whipped 
a  mouse-colored  nag  right  about  and  departed  the  way  he 
came,  as  soon  as  he  spied  the  duke  in  the  distance. 

The  duke's  mirth  increased  as  the  mud-sticker,  as  he  called 
him,  took  to  flight.  He  seemed  vastly  pleased  with  the  respect 
he  inspired. 

At  last,  at  a  cross-road,  they  came  upon  two  women  in  red 
cloaks  and  gaudy  tunics,  seated  on  the  greensward,  with  a 
certain  dubious  alertness  about  the  eyes,  that  glimmered  be 
tween  hunger  and  discontent.  By  their  side  in  the  grass  lay  a 
viol;  they  seemed  to  have  chosen  the  spot  to  rest. 

As  the  duke  and  his  companion  approached,  the  twain 
watched  them  with  a  peculiar,  hard-eyed  intentness,  glanced 
at  each  other,  and  smiled. 

"  Whither  away,  my  dear?  "  said  the  taller  of  the  two. 
"  It  is  fair  weather  for  a  journey!  "  - 

The  duke  bowed  profusely. 

"  Fair  weather  for  a  good  thirst,"  he  replied,  nodding  at  the 
stone  bottle  which  reposed  in  the  capacious  lap  of  the 
speaker. 

"  You  carry  a  lusty  belly,"  replied  the  dame,  whose  eyes  had 
a  hungry  boldness,  while  she  offered  the  bottle  to  her  inter 
locutor. 

The  duke  took  a  liberal  draught.    Francesco  frowned. 

Then  the  three  chaffered  with  obvious  good  humor,  touching 
upon  many  topics,  which  sounded  strange  to  Francesco's  ears. 

They  touched  upon  the  wonders  of  the  swamps,  wild  beasts, 
wolves  and  bears;  they  conversed  of  the  outlaws  of  Arezzo, 
whose  leader  was  said  to  be  a  woman;  of  the  stone  that  bled 
on  Passion  Sunday,  of  the  mysterious  almond-tree  at  Treviso, 
that  bore  fruit  showing  the  impress  of  the  face  of  the  Christ. 

The  duke  seemed  remarkably  well  versed  in  all  matters 

169 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

pertaining  to  Church  or  state.  When  he  stopped  for  a  pull  at 
the  stone  bottle,  the  two  women  laughed,  taking  alternate 
bites  from  an  apple  and  munching  the  pulp  with  a  voracious 
movement  of  the  jaws. 

Francesco  thought  them  queer  wayfarers,  for  they  in  turn 
stared  at  him,  then  at  each  other  and  laughed,  looking  at 
Francesco's  grave  face  as  if  it  were  the  quaintest  thing  on 
earth. 

"  Saints !  What  a  sweet  gentleman !  "  said  the  taller  of  the 
two,  "  and  to  see  such  a  one  in  the  spider's  web !  " 

And  as  she  sighed,  her  eyes  discoursed  to  Francesco  some 
thing  that  savored  not  of  the  Church. 

The  fat  vagrant  offered  him  the  bottle,  while  her  compan 
ion's  eyes  sent  him  a  tentative  offer  of  friendliness,  half  timid, 
half  bold.  , 

Francesco  passed  it  by  with  a  flash  of  the  eyes  to  the  horizon, 
and  a  straight  setting  of  the  chin. 

After  having  parted  from  the  two  rowdies  in  the  fantastic 
cloaks,  the  duke  and  Francesco  continued  upon  their  way. 

"  There  is  freedom  only  on  the  mountain-heights,"  the 
duke  said,  as  they  arrived  at  a  crossing,  marked,  by  a  huge 
stone  cross.  "  If  this  truth  ever  dawns  upon  you,  if  ever  your 
soul  shrinks  from  the  greed  and  hypocrisy  of  the  world,  if  you 
tire  of  bloodshed  in  the  name  of  the  Cross  and  of  villainy 
glorified  by  the  name  of  Christ  —  the  camp  of  the  Duke  of 
Spoleto  will  receive  you,  standing  face  to  face  with  God  alone." 

With  a  hearty  hand-shake  they  parted,  and  Francesco  fol 
lowed  the  road  pointed  out  to  him  by  his  companion  of  the 
morning  hours. 

He  had  taken  reluctant  leave  of  the  burly  champion  of  a 
lost  cause,  whose  very  presence  seemed  to  breathe  the  unde- 
filed  air  of  his  great  northern  forests,  undefiled  by  the  trend 
of  human  feet,  the  echoes  of  human  strife. 

And  as  Francesco  gave  a  parting  look  to  the  high  hills  with 

170 


QUAINT    WAYFARERS 

the  glitter  of  their  birch-trees,  he  suddenly  experienced  an 
unexplainable  melting  of  his  resentment  against  Ilaria. 

Something  that  he  could  neither  describe  nor  account  for, 
came  into  his  heart,  a  subtle  emotion,  that  was  like  a  faint 
perfume,  or  the  sound  of  music  from  afar.  He  had  hated  her 
for  her  cold  pride  when  he  left  his  home ;  yet,  into  this  tawny 
cloud  of  hate  flashed  the  vivid  streak  of  a  sudden  recollection. 

Every  faint  zephyr  reminded  him  of  her  charm;  transfused 
itself  into  the  mellow  brilliancy  of  her  beauty,  and  Francesco 
suddenly  surprised  himself  by  taking  her  part  against  himself. 

And,  what  was  more,  he  experienced  a  curiously  pleasing 
sensation  in  the  act,  and  in  this  impulse  towards  tenderness 
discovered  things  that  were  strange  and  long  forgotten. 

It  was  now  the  drowsy  noon  of  day,  and  the  wood  was  full 
of  shadows  and  of  stealthy,  creeping  sunlight. 

He  rested  for  a  pace,  then,  refreshed  by  the  siesta,  he  rode 
onward,  other  thoughts  beginning  to  throng  his  mind. 

He  was  entering  a  sphere  of  action. 

Hitherto  his  life  had  been  as  that  of  a  recluse.  The  peace 
of  the  cloister  had  enveloped  him  as  a  mighty  cloak  of  safety. 
It  had  dominated  him  even  to  the  point  of  total  paralysis  of  his 
energies.  Of  the  purpose  of  his  journey  he  was  still  in  igno 
rance.  Yet,  an  inner  voice  whispered  to  him  that  it  was  the 
clarion  call  of  the  Church  Militant  that  had  called  him  out  of 
his  repose. 

There  could  be  no  further  compromise  between  the  warring 
factions. 

The  death-struggle  between  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  had 
reached  its  highest  crest.  Henceforth  he  would  be  the  soldier 
of  the  Church.  A  chasm,  no  eternity  could  bridge,  would  gape 
between  himself  and  the  friends  of  his  youth.  Thus  Fate  had 
willed  it.  Hurled  into  a  seething  vortex,  he  was  swept  onward 
by  the  resistless  tide. 

Now  and  again  moments  of  resonant  incredulity  beat  upon 

171 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

his  brain.  Why  had  his  guiltless  youth  been  condemned,  why 
had  he  been  sold  into  bondage? 

For  a  moment  he  started,  retreating  precipitately  into  the 
shadows. 

On  the  far  bank  of  the  river,  whose  glittering  coils  wound 
through  the  emerald  depths  of  the  valley,  there,  among  the 
aspens,  he  descried  a  company  of  horsemen,  waiting,  spears 
erect,  helmets  glittering,  the  wind  tossing  the  dark  manes  of 
their  horses. 

After  a  time  they  rode  onward,  and  he,  too,  cautiously  pur 
sued  his  solitary  path. 

Evening  had  come. 

The  rose  had  faded  from  the  sky ;  but  the  horizon  was  flooded 
with  pale  gold,  in  which  shone  the  pellucid  evening  star.  The 
au:  was  filled  with  the  sweet  chimes  of  innumerable  bells. 

A  group  of  towers  rising  above  the  distant  hills  cut  sharply 
into  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

Yonder  lay  Viterbo  amidst  her  encircling  walls :  thence  those 
carolling  chimes,  that  so  strangely  stirred  him,  were  singing 
their  message  of  peace. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  afar. 

Would  he  turn  back?  — 

The  west  was  smoking  with  golden  vapors.  The  forests 
receding  on  either  hand  revealed  the  hills  and  summits  of  the 
pontifical  city.  The  old  Longobard  walls  curved  away  on  each 
hand,  for  a  long  distance,  high  and  grim,  with  battlements  and 
towers,  bare  and  menacing. 

For  a  moment  Francesco  paused;  his  eyes  in  the  tracks 
of  the  sinking  sun,  his  lips  tightly  set,  the  nails  of  his  hands 
driven  into  his  own  flesh. 

Then  with  head  high  and  erect,  never  a  muscle  betraying 
the  anguish  of  his  soul,  he  rode  into  the  gates  of  Viterbo. 


172 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE    PAWN    OF   THE    CHURCH 


HEN  Francesco  arrived  on  the 
height  it  was  the  hour  of  the 
closing  of  the  city-gates  and  he 
took  lodging  at  an  inn  situated 
near  the  city  walls. 

He  caught  his  breath  the  next 
morning  at  the  imposing  aspect 
of  the  place. 

In  the  young  sunshine  its 
many  towers  were  no  longer 
phantom  intruders  on  the  sky,  but  a  dominant  fact.  The 
machicolated  heights,  the  encircling  ramparts,  the  stern  out 
lines  of  the  fortress-palace  of  the  pope,  rose  proudly  impreg 
nable  in  the  air. 

On  the  broad  highways  from  Umbria,  Tuscany  and  Ro- 
magna,  even  at  this  early  hour,  an  almost  endless  stream  of 
humanity  was  moving.  Many  a  clerk  and  prelate  was  there, 
superbly  arrayed,  mounted  on  steeds  gay  with  princely  trap 
pings.  Fair  women  took  in  the  freshness  of  the  day.  Pil 
grims  with  staff  and  shell  trudged  merrily  or  wearily  on. 
Jewish  merchants,  serious  of  face,  bore  packs  containing 
valuable  merchandise.  For  Viterbo  lay  on  the  highway,  link 
ing  Northern  and  Southern  Italy,  and  Europe,  hi  motion  on  its 
way  to  Rome,  moved  incessantly  through  its  streets.  The 
image  of  Rome,  in  her  desolation,  recurred,  vague  as  a 
ghost,  to  Francesco's  mind  and  vanished  before  this  city  of 
the  present,  unhaunted  as  yet  by  memories,  rising  radiant  in 
the  morning  air. 

173 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Treading  the  streets,  the  life  which  he  for  the  past  weeks 
had  so  eagerly  accepted,  suddenly  seemed  alien  to  the  whole  old 
order  of  thoughts  and  feelings  which  Francesco  represented. 

Mechanically  almost  he  dropped  on  his  knees  before  an 
altar,  gazing  at  the  pictured  face  of  a  kneeling  woman  whose 
eyes  were  filled  with  pure  compassion.  Nevertheless,  he  al 
lowed  himself  to  be  diverted  by  the  interest  of  his  surround 
ings,  while  moving  towards  the  presence  of  the  head  of  Chris 
tendom. 

Pope  Clement  IV  gave  audience  in  a  high  apartment,  over 
looking  the  winding  road  to  Rome.  The  sunlight,  streaming 
through  the  window  arch,  revealed  the  man  with  much  dis 
tinctness. 

The  Pontiff  was  slight  and  delicate  of  build.  His  face  bore 
the  stamp  of  a  high  order  of  intellect ;  his  features  were  those 
of  an  aristocrat.  Disease  of  body  was  plainly  portrayed  by 
his  shadowy  cheeks,  much  lined  for  his  fifty-odd  years.  Disease 
of  soul  showed  none  the  less  plainly  in  a  troubled  lift  of  the 
eyebrows,  that  imparted  to  the  face  a  look  of  search,  expect 
ing  yet  perhaps  desiring  no  answer.  The  countenance  withal 
was  unmistakably  of  the  legal  cast,  self-contained,  alert, 
studious.  On  the  whole,  Francesco's  first  impression  upon 
being  conducted  into  the  presence  of  the  Father  of  Christen 
dom,  was  of  the  unconscious  dignity  of  high  place,  blended 
with  something  too  complex  for  analysis. 

Many  cardinals  and  princes  of  the  Church,  many  orders  of 
monks,  noblemen  and  foreign  ambassadors  were  assembled 
in  the  audience-chamber  of  the  Pontiff.  There  was  a  restless 
ness  among  them,  which  immediately  impressed  itself  upon 
the  newcomer. 

Surrounding  the  pontifical  dais  were  Antonio  Pignatello, 
Cardinal  of  Cosenza  and  private  secretary  to  His  Holiness; 
Don  Stefano,  General  of  the  Carthusians,  Master  Raimondo, 
General  of  the  Dominicans,  and  an  individual  who  was  inces- 

174 


THE    PAWN    OF    THE    CHURCH 

santly  fingering  his  beads,  whose  bent  countenance,  sallow 
featuies,  sunken  eyes,  thin  lips  and  claw-like  talons  revealed 
a  combination  of  hypocrisy  and  cunning,  such  as  but  one  man 
could  lay  claim  to,  and  he  the  champion  of  Pope  Clement  IV, 
Charles  of  Anjou,  brother  of  King  Louis  of  France. 

"  Yet  —  notwithstanding  your  plea,  you  have  not  yet  seen 
the  towers  of  the  Holy  City  established  on  earth  among  the 
children  of  men,"  the  Pontiff  turned  to  the  Provencal. 

"  I  have  had  no  visions,"  replied  the  latter  with  a  quick  lift 
of  the  eyes. 

"  Nor  I,  beloved  son,"  said  the  Pontiff,  "  save  as  the  spec 
tacle  of  life  is  an  ever  changing  vision.  Have  you  any  con 
ception,  I  wonder,  of  its  interest  and  significance  in  these 
latter  days?  " 

"  Let  me  remind  you.  Holy  Father,  Benevento  lies  behind 
us,"  snarled  the  champion  of  the  Church.  "  Would  your  black 
crows  have  carried  the  day  without  the  chivalry  of  Provence?  " 

The  Pontiff  ignored  the  insolence  of  the  speech. 

"  Truly  —  Benevento  lies  behind  us,"  he  said.  "  Never 
theless  I  may  not  say,  here  is  the  hand  of  God,  and  there  it  is 
withheld.  The  schism  has  widened;  the  way  of  the  truth  is 
more  obscure  than  ever;  the  Church  has  grown  to  be  the  very 
scorn  of  men,  because  of  the  instruments  she  employs,  —  she 
is  forced  to  employ !  " 

The  Pontiff's  tone  had  grown  hard  and  there  was  a  steely 
glitter  in  his  gray  eyes. 

Charles  of  Anjou  fingered  his  beads  more  swiftly,  while 
his  thin  lips  stretched  into  a  hard,  straight  line. 

"  '  The  end  justifies  the  means!  '  has  long  been  the  maxim 
of  the  princes  of  the  Church,"  he  said,  while  his  eyes  seemed 
to  rest  on  the  tips  of  his  buskins,  protruding  from  under  the 
monkish  garb  he  affected. 

The  Pontiff  hastened  to  explain. 

"  One  may  not  cleanse  a  pigsty  with  a  silver  fork.    Yet  — 

175 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

shall  the  Patrimony  of  St.  Peter  be  sacked  and  burned  in  the 
name  of  the  Cross?  Shall  violence,  cunning  and  greed  reign 
unchecked,  that  the  Beast  may  be  glorified?  " 

"  Yet  the  Beast  may  not  gird  its  loins  without  drink  or  food, 
—  and  the  Halo  makes  but  a  thin  mantle!  "  snarled  the  Pon 
tiff's  crusader. 

Clement  raised  a  thin,  emaciated  hand. 

"  What  a  mass  of  falsehoods  and  hypocritical  phrases  have 
again  assailed  our  ear!  Our  dearly  beloved  son  in  Christ 
boasts  of  his  love  and  veneration  for  the  Church,  while  those 
under  his  command  are  pillaging  the  sanctuaries !  " 

The  beads  passed  nervously  through  Anjou's  fingers. 

"  These  reproaches,  Holy  Father,"  he  said  with  a  sepul 
chral  voice,  "  touch  me  very  deeply.  The  host  must  be  fed, 
and  their  zeal  for  the  cause  of  Holy  Church  may  lead  them  to 
mistake  the  cornfields  of  the  righteous !  " 

The  Pontiff  bowed. 

"  Your  crusades  against  the  infidels  seem  to  have  blurred 
your  vision,  beloved  son!  " 

"  You  speak  of  my  youthful  glories,  Holy  Father,"  replied 
Charles  of  Anjou  with  a  leer.  "  Many  years  have  since  gone 
by,  and  they  sleep  with  my  youthful  sins !  " 

"  That  must  be  a  wide  berth  that  enables  them  to  find  place 
side  by  side,"  retorted  the  Pontiff. 

Then,  with  a  nameless  shrug,  he  turned  to  the  Cardinal  of 
Cosenza. 

"  Has  the  messenger  returned  from  Astura?  " 

Instead  of  the  Cardinal,  Anjou  made  reply. 

"  Wherein  would  treason  benefit  the  Frangipani?  They 
hold  their  castle  as  fief  of  the  Empire,  and  the  coffers  of  the 
Church  are  dolefully  empty." 

The  Pontiff  turned  to  the  speaker. 

"  Treason,  —  beloved  son?  A  harsh  word  indeed !  Were 
breaking  with  a  sinful  past  to  be  stigmatized  in  such  wise,  our 

176 


THE    PAWN    OF   THE    CHURCH 

indulgences  would  indeed  go  begging  and  St.  Peter  tire  at  his 
watch!  " 

Charles  of  Anjou  gave  a  significant  shrug. 

"  Will  the  Frangipani  exchange  a  distant  master  for  one 
hovering  over  their  rock?  " 

The  Pontiff  waved  the  question  aside. 

"  The  bait  were  hardly  tempting !  " 

The  small  eyes  of  Anjou  met  those  of  the  Pontiff. 

"  What  is  the  bribe?  "  he  queried  brutally. 

Clement  raised  his  hands  in  abhorrence.  A  lawyer  and  a 
diplomat,  the  Frenchman's  brutal  frankness  jarred  on  his 
nerves. 

"  What  of  Astura  as  his  own  —  to  have  and  to  hold?  "  he 
said  at  last  with  bated  breath. 

A  sudden  sinister  gleam  from  Anjou's  eyes  betokened  his 
understanding. 

"  The  dead  are  all  immortal,"  he  said  with  a  shrug. 

A  sudden  commotion,  the  sound  of  voices  hi  the  antecham 
ber,  produced  a  momentary  lull  in  the  conversation,  and  at 
the  beck  of  the  Pontiff  the  Cardinal  of  Cosenza  rose  to  inquire 
into  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

After  a  time  he  returned  and  whispered  some  words  into 
Clement's  ears. 

The  Pontiff  was  seen  to  start;  and  to  look  from  one  to  the 
other  of  those  present.  Then  he  nodded  and,  through  the  door 
of  the  audience-chamber,  Francesco  was  ushered  into  the 
august  presence  of  the  Father  of  Christendom. 

He  was  received  with  a  courteous  quiet,  the  Pontiff  and  those 
about  him  regarding  him  curiously. 

Francesco  advanced  at  a  signal  from  the  Cardinal  of  Cosenza, 
who  acted  as  master  of  ceremonies,  knelt  and  kissed  the 
Pontiff's  feet.  He  felt  somewhat  dazed  by  the  unwonted 
presence  and  awaited  in  silence  the  Pontiff's  question.  In  a 
fleeting  glance  he  had  taken  in  his  surroundings,  but  as,  when 

177 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

he  rose  from  his  kneeling  position,  his  gaze  encountered  that 
of  the  Pontiff's  minion,  there  swept  over  him  such  a  wave  of 
rage,  horror  and  shame,  that  all  the  color  left  his  face,  and  his 
hands  were  clenched,  as  if  he  would  spring  at  the  cowled  form 
by  the  Pontiff's  side  and  strangle  him.  He  restrained  himself 
with  an  effort,  but  the  gesture  had  not  passed  unremarked 
by  Anjou,  who  was  engaged  in  sedulously  counting  his  beads 
and  fingering  the  Leaden  Lamb  about  his  neck,  while  he  drew 
the  cowl  somewhat  deeper  over  his  face. 

Francesco,  turning  to  the  Pontiff,  was  struck  by  the  reticent 
shrewdness  hi  Clement's  eyes,  the  expression  of  his  face, 
the  calm,  unmoved  poise  of  body  and  head. 

It  crossed  his  consciousness  in  a  flash  that  it  was  possible 
for  this  man  to  impress  his  will  upon  a  world,  no  matter  if  that 
world  rebelled. 

"  Your  name?  "  the  Pontiff  spoke  at  last. 

"  Francesco  Villani,"  came  the  reply,  given  with  bated  breath. 

Clement  stared  into  space  as  one  endeavoring  to  recall  a 
memory. 

"  Villani,  —  Villani  —  "  he  muttered  to  himself  with  an 
absent  air.  "  Where  have  we  heard  the  name  before?  " 

The  Cardinal  of  Cosenza  leaned  forward,  his  lips  at  Clem 
ent's  ear. 

The  Pontiff  nodded. 

"  We  remember,  —  we  remember,  —  the  illegitimate  off 
spring  of  Gregorio  Villani,  Grand  Master  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Hospital!" 

The  words  had  been  spoken  with  intent  of  being  heard  by 
all  present. 

Francesco  straightened  himself  to  his  full  height. 

His  eyes  blazed  as  he  faced  the  Pontiff. 

"  Your  Holiness  need  not  proclaim  my  father's  shame  to  the 
ears  of  Christendom !  Let  it  suffice,  that  I  am  atoning  for  his 
fault,  —  If  fault  it  was !  " 

178 


THE    PAWN    OF   THE    CHURCH 

There  was  a  heavy  silence,  during  which  the  Pontiff  and 
Charles  of  Anjou  exchanged  significant  glances. 

They  had  not  remained  unremarked  by  Francesco,  and  the 
spark  of  rebellion  which  had  slumbered  in  his  soul  all  these 
long  and  weary  months  was  fanned  to  devouring  flame,  as 
with  inexpressible  loathing  his  gaze  rested  upon  the  man  who 
was  the  abomination  of  Christendom,  the  instrument  of  the 
Pontiff. 

"What  proof  have  we  that  you  are  atoning  for  the  trans 
gressions  of  one  who  passed  from  earth  in  mortal  sin?  "  the 
Pontiff  queried  after  a  pause,  while  a  fatuous  smile  played 
about  Anjou  s  lips. 

"  The  garb  I  wear,"  Francesco  flashed.  "  The  garb  your 
Holiness  has  imposed !  " 

The  Pontiff  regarded  him  quizzically. 

"  You  have  served  your  novitiate?  " 

"  At  Monte  Cassino !  " 

"  How  fares  the  Prior?  It  is  many  moons  since  we  have 
visited  his  mountain-heights !  " 

Francesco  gave  a  brief  account  of  his  life  at  the  cloister, 
up  to  the  time  when  he  had  received  the  summons  to  Rome. 

Clement  listened  warily,  the  lawyer  in  his  expression 
uppermost. 

"  You  come  from  Rome?  " 

Francesco  shivered  at  the  memory. 

"  From  Rome !  "  he  replied  curtly. 

"  What  of  the  city?  " 

"  King  Conradino  lords  the  Capitol !  " 

"  You  have  seen  the  Pretender?  " 

"  We  have  stood  face  to  face." 

"  What  is  he  like?  " 

Francesco  gazed  from  Clement  to  Anjou 

"A  man!" 

The  Pontiff  nodded,  as  if  he  approved  the  observation. 

179 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

In  the  man  Francesco  had  long  discovered  the  judicial 
mind,  and  the  discreet  intelligence  of  the  trained  states 
man. 

From  the  shadows  the  Pontiff  was  warily  regarding  the 
sun-steeped  features  of  the  young  monk. 

At  last,  his  voice  sinking  down  to  its  accustomed  calm,  he 
said,  as  if  feeling  his  ground: 

"  Does  the  new  life  satisfy  your  soul?  " 

The  restless,  ceaseless  pain  of  longing  again  knocked  at 
Francesco's  heart,  and  with  it  returned  the  old  spirit  of  rebel 
lion,  which  had  possessed  him  in  the  days  of  his  novitiate  at 
Monte  Cassino.  And,  unconsciously,  he  repeated  the  words 
of  the  Duke  of  Spoleto: 

"Men  make  a  patchwork  quilt  of  life,  and  call  the  patch 
work  religion  and  law." 

An  audible  gasp  was  wafted  to  his  ears. 

Clement  opened  his  hand  and  dropped  the  little  crucifix, 
which  he  had  been  fingering  during  their  talk,  with  a  gesture 
of  rejection,  on  the  floor  behind  him.  The  palm  of  the  hand, 
still  stretched  and  open,  bore  sharp  red  marks.  The  point  of 
the  cross  had  evidently  just  been  pressed  into  it  with  con 
vulsive  energy. 

"  Obedience  is  holiness,"  the  Pontiff  said  at  last,  with  a 
sweep  of  his  hand. 

Francesco  discovered  himself  unwittingly  gazing  in  the 
direction  of  Anjou.  The  Pontiff  intercepted  the  look.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  reason  for  his  question  which  Francesco  was  far 
from  guessing,  as  he  suavely  said: 

"  You  do  not  conceive,  my  son,  that  the  Church  can  err  hi 
the  choice  of  her  instruments?  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  some  striking  instances  of  the  readiness 
of  the  servants  of  the  Church,"  he  replied  with  a  straight  look 
at  Anjou,  "  to  suppress  the  spirit  when  it  suited  them  to  do 
so." 

180 


THE    PAWN    OF   THE    CHURCH 

At  these  words  a  change,  visible  even  in  the  shadows,  crossed 
the  features  of  the  Provencal  leader. 

"  The  spirit  is  capable  of  various  interpretations,"  he  snarled 
with  a  vicious  glare  at  the  young  monk,  whose  air  of  loathing 
had  stung  him  to  the  quick. 

"  But  not  the  instrument,"  Francesco  retorted  hotly. 

Clement  at  this  point  thought  fit  to  interpose,  yet  not  with 
out  a  sting  of  rebuke  to  the  brother  of  Louis  of  France. 

"  The  Church  requires  not  her  subjects  to  think  for  her,  nor 
to  interpret  her  spirit.  What  she  exacts,  is  unfaltering  obedi 
ence  !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  Pontiff's  tone  which  startled 
Francesco.  He  was  conscious  that  Clement  avoided  touching 
on  the  business  of  his  summons  to  Rome,  as  if  to  force  him 
to  betray  his  own  trend  of  mind.  Yet  he  shrank  unwittingly 
from  uttering  the  words  which  hovered  on  his  lips.  He  felt 
instinctively  there  was  no  mercy  within  these  walls,  and  at 
the  thought  he  was  seized  with  a  secret  dread. 

The  silence  at  last  grew  irksome.  Francesco  felt  a  cold 
hand  clutching  at  his  heart. 

If  the  sacrifice  had  been  in  vain!  If  he  had  been  tricked 
into  selling  his  birthright,  tricked  into  bartering  his  happiness 
for  a  shroud !  He  felt  the  flood-gates  of  his  memory  re-open ; 
he  felt  the  portals  of  the  past,  which  had  been  locked  and 
barred,  swing  back  upon  their  hinges,  grating  deep  down  into 
his  soul.  The  mad  longing  for  the  world  bounded  back  into 
his  heart. 

Still  the  Pontiff  did  not  speak. 

"  I  have  been  summoned  from  Monte  Cassino,"  Francesco 
at  last  spoke  with  an  assumption  of  courage  which  he  was  far 
from  feeling.  "  I  am  waiting  the  commands  of  your  Holi 
ness!  " 

The  Pontiff  nodded. 

"  These  are  grievous  times  indeed;  the  Church  must  needs 

181 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

summon  her  faithful  about  her,  to  become  militant  in  her 
service!  " 

"  What  would  your  Holiness  have  me  do?  "  said  Francesco. 

"  The  service  that  will  be  demanded  of  you  is  to  be  commen 
surate  with  the  boon  you  have  come  to  ask  at  our  hands," 
Clement  replied  at  last. 

For  a  moment  Francesco  stared  speechless  at  the  Pontiff. 
Clement  had  read  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 

"  When  I  entered  the  monastic  life,"  he  said  at  last,  "  it 
was  stipulated  that  at  the  expiration  of  a  certain  period  the 
burden  should  be  lightened." 

"  Conditions?  "  replied  Clement,  with  a  slight  contraction 
of  the  brows.  "  The  Church  demands  unconditional  surren 
der  !  Are  you  so  very  anxious  to  be  relieved  of  the  garb  which 
befits  the  servant  of  God?  " 

"  There  are  various  ways  to  serve  the  Church,"  Francesco 
replied  in  a  hard  voice. 

Clement  bent  serious  brows  upon  him. 

"  We  must  subdue  the  mind  for  the  sake  of  the  mind !  The 
boon  you  are  about  to  ask  might  be  granted  —  in  return  for 
some  signal  service  to  the  Church !  " 

Francesco's  eyelids  narrowed. 

"  And  this  service,  —  what  is  it?  " 

He  saw  the  Pontiff  and  Charles  of  Anjou  exchange  glances. 

What  new  traffic  were  they  about  to  propose  to  him? 

He  looked  about  the  circle  of  ecclesiastics. 

He  met  but  the  reflection  of  the  Pontiff's  quizzical  glances. 

"  We  require  a  special  envoy  to  Naples,  to  calm  the  minds 
of  the  disaffected.  Our  choice  has  fallen  upon  you.  On  the 
result  of  your  mission  depends  the  granting  of  the  boon." 

Francesco  made  no  reply. 

What  could  he  urge  in  his  own  behalf  that  was  not  defeated 
hi  the  utterance? 

He  was  no  match  for  Clement  hi  subtlety  and,  though  he 

182 


THE    PAWN    OF   THE    CHURCH 

could  not  fathom  the  reasons  governing  Clement's  choice  of 
himself  to  treat,  as  he  surmised,  with  the  Neapolitans,  he 
recognized  therein  the  desire  on  the  part  of  the  Pontiff  to 
strike  his  enemies  through  one  of  their  own. 

"  What  are  the  commands  of  your  Holiness?  "  he  said  at 
last. 

"  You  will  receive  your  instructions  from  the  Cardinal  of 
Cosenza,"  the  Pontiff  replied  calmly. 

"  Your  audience  is  concluded,"  the  latter  whispered  into 
Francesco's  ear.  He  approached  the  pontifical  dais  as  one 
in  a  dream;  and,  after  the  customary  genuflection  and  the 
ceremony  of  kissing  the  Pontiff's  feet,  he  passed  out  of  the 
audience-cha'.nber  into  the  sun-fraught  air  of  noon,  the  Pon 
tiff's  "  Go  in  peace!  "  still  ringing  in  his  ears. 

The  personality  of  Clement  had  not  passed  from  him  with 
out  a  deep  impress.  Here  was  a  man  created  in  the  type  of 
his  predecessors,  Alexander  IV  and  Urban  IV,  a  man  who 
shrank  from  nothing  that  would  advance  the  cause  of  the 
Church. 

Thinking  of  the  audience  which  had  just  come  to  a  close, 
a  heavy  sense  of  defeat  weighed  Francesco  down.  His  re 
sistance  had  been  utterly  swept  away;  in  vain  had  he  waited 
for  a  power  that  did  not  come  to  uplift  him  and  release. 

The  chasm  betvveen  the  life  of  the  present  and  the  life  of 
the  past  gaped  ever  wider.  By  some  invincible  force  he  was 
being  hurried  onward  to  a  dark  and  uncertain  goal. 

In  the  language  of  the  East,  he  had  his  fate  bound  about  his 
neck.  There  was  no  escape  for  him.  Vainly  as  he  might  cast 
about  him  for  an  anchor,  he  saw  nothing  encompassing  him 
but  a  great  void.  From  the  old  life  he  was  barred  forever- 
more.  The  future  appeared  as  a  country  bleak  and  un 
redeemed. 

Towards  evening  he  rode  out  of  the  gates  of  Viterbo.  From 
its  mountain  height  the  pontifical  palace  frowned  upon  the 

183 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

world  below  with  stern  defiance,  its   architecture  expressive 
of  the  asceticism,  defensive  of  the  soldier,  rather,  than  the 
asceticism,  contemplative  of  the  saint. 
Thus  he  rode  out  into  the  deepening  dusk. 


184 


CHAPTER  V 


THE    RED   TOWER 


ITH  the  first  pulse  of  dawn  in 
the  East,  Francesco  was  up  and 
astir  with  the  zest  of  the  hour. 
The  woods  were  full  of  golden 
vapor,  of  dew  and  the  chanting  of 
birds.  A  stream  sang  under  the 
boughs,  purling  and  foaming 
over  a  broad  ledge  of  stone  into 
a  misty  pool.  A  blue  sky  glim 
mered  above  the  glistening  tree- 
tops;  the  dwindling  wood-ways  quivered  with  the  multitudi 
nous  madrigals  of  the  dawn. 

A  strange  calm  encompassed  him,  as  he  rode  down  the 
castle  hill  into  a  wood  of  ilex  where  the  dawn  freshness  still 
lingered.  The  rebellious  temper  of  his  mood  sank  like  a  sea 
beneath  the  benediction  of  a  god.  His  was  not  a  soul  that 
bartered  through  carven  screens  for  penitence  and  peace. 
His  face  caught  a  radiance  from  the  vaultings  of  the  trees. 

Around  him  ran  wooded  hills,  streams  and  pastures,  dusted 
thick  with  flowers.  The  odors  of  dawn  burdened  the  breeze. 
In  the  distance  the  purple  heights  of  Viterbo  faded  into  the 
azure  of  the  sky. 

Southward  he  rode,  towards  Circe's  land.  The  far  heights 
bristled  with  woodlands,  shimmering  with  magic  mystery 
under  the  rising  sun.  The  forest  spires  were  smitten  with  a 
glamor  of  gold.  Precipice  and  wooded  heights  were  solitary 
as  the  sea  itself. 

185 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

Francesco  had  left  Viterbo  exalted,  liberated,  glad.  The 
prospect  of  high  endeavor  had  lifted  him  out  of  his  melan 
choly.  His  mind,  overawed  by  the  spirit,  was  for  the  time  set 
free  from  that  intellectual  restlessness  and  moral  incertitude, 
which  against  his  will  had  grown  up  in  him  in  the  atmosphere 
wherein  he  moved. 

He  was  the  messenger  of  the  Church,  bound  for  the  Nea 
politan  court  on  a  mission  aiming  to  restore  the  Southern 
Italian  cities  to  the  control  of  him  who  was  the  Vicar  of  Christ 
on  earth.  For  a  moment  even  the  paradox  did  not  distress  him. 
Enough  that  he  was  under  marching  orders,  that  the  walls  of 
Monte  Cassino  lay  far  behind  him.  Surely  the  time  was  com 
ing  when  loyalty  to  Church  and  country  would  be  as  one!  If 
he  might  only  meet  some  great  outward  test,  he  mused,  some 
great  trial,  in  which,  to  his  own  mind,  as  to  the  world,  his  con 
victions  might  shine  forth! 

All  he  saw  and  heard  confirmed  the  dark  insinuations  of 
the  Duca  di  Spoleto;  yet  the  fact  of  decision  had  soothed  his 
bewilderment,  and  there  was  hope  of  action  ahead.  Mean- 
tune  he  allowed  himself  to  react  passively  on  the  impressions 
of  the  way.  He  was  entertained  with  making  acquaintances 
all  along  the  route.  Nothing  in  his  graceful  aspect  betrayed 
the  religious,  and  people,  not  suspecting  his  errand  talked  to 
him  with  the  frankness  to  which  excited  tunes  give  birth.  On 
all  lips  there  was  the  same  tale;  the  cause  of  the  League  of 
Italian  cities  against  the  Pope  was  filling  young  and  old  with 
chivalric  passion.  From  the  lower  undulations  of  Tuscany, 
through  the  valleys  of  the  Apennines,  in  the  levels  of  Emilia, 
everywhere  waved  the  Florentine  banner,  blood  red,  with  its 
flashing  motto:  "  Libertas."  It  fanned  the  fire  of  a  patriot 
ism  which  he  was  compelled  to  recognize  as  pure,  of  that  proud 
spirit  of  independence  and  hatred  of  oppression  which  has 
created  the  free  cities  of  Italy.  Not  for  the  last  time  united 
protest  against  foreign  tyranny  was  stilling  petty  strife  and 

186 


THE    RED    TOWER 

evoking  the  national  consciousness,  which  even  Dante  was 
vainly  to  long  for.  And  Francesco's  spirit  was  swift  to  respond 
to  the  call.  How  otherwise?  Was  he  not  young?  Was  he  not, 
too,  a  man,  to  whom  country  and  race  were  dear? 

But  as  he  continued  upon  his  way,  as  with  his  steady  ad 
vance  the  forests  gradually  thinned  and  he  began  the  descent 
into  the  plains  of  the  Campagna,  the  image  of  Ilaria  was  con 
stantly  before  him.  Where  was  she?  What  was  she  doing? 
The  thought  brought  with  it  a  troubled  bewilderment.  Pos 
sessed  like  himself  of  a  love  of  beauty,  like  himself  con 
sumed  by  a  restlessness  tremulous  for  something  not  quite 
clearly  understood,  this  fine  and  beautiful  creature  would  be 
ill  at  ease  in  the  rough  life  of  the  feudal  castle.  That  in  the 
one  case  the  restlessness  might  be  reaching  upwards,  in  the 
other,  downwards,  Francesco  was  too  loyal  to  surmise.  What 
good  days  they  had  known,  he  and  she!  Together  they  had 
watched  the  play  of  light  on  the  mountain  slopes,  or  over  the 
great  faint-gleaming  lands  within  the  soft  curve  of  whose 
farthest  blue  they  could  divine  the  sea;  together  the  two  dark 
heads  had  bent  over  some  vellum  roll  of  Lariella's  favorite 
poet. 

And  again  she  stood  before  him;  the  perfectly  arched  eye 
brows,  the  wide  forehead,  the  sweet  curves  that  had  dimpled 
in  girlish  days  beneath  a  shadowy  crown,  greeted  him  from  a 
dusky  frame.  With  the  increased  perfection  of  her  person 
went,  he  soon  perceived,  a  trained  and  practised  instinct  for 
all  the  graces  of  life.  As  she  had  appeared  to  him  in  Rome, 
she  had  been  more  charming  than  ever  before. 

Too  charming,  alas !   to  remain  unapproached  by  desire,  — 
and  too  reckless,  perchance,  to  resist! 

With  a  jerk  he  reined  in  his  steed. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  fears  that  had  been  squirming  below  con 
sciousness  heaved  up  their  heads  and  Francesco  heard  him 
self  cry  aloud: 

187 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  God !   If  one's  lady  of  the  stars  should  prove  a  wanton !  "  — 

The  uttered  words  struck  cold  upon  his  ear.  He  had  stopped 
abruptly,  throwing  his  open  palm  against  the  rough  bark  of 
a  tree.  The  hurt  mixed  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

Dismounting,  he  permitted  the  disturbed  animal  to  graze 
in  an  adjacent  meadow-land;  then,  invaded  by  the  terror  of 
the  fact,  he  flung  himself  face  downward,  pressing  his  cheek 
into  the  wet  grass,  recalling  every  too  significant  word  and 
look  of  the  Proserpina  of  yore,  thrilled  in  his  senses  by  her 
last  glance  at  him  and  troubled  by  a  passion  he  despised. 
Slowly  to  the  first  pain,  with  which  the  image  of  his  dream-lady 
faded,  there  succeeded  another.  The  friend  of  his  youth,  the 
one  woman  he  loved,  —  what  was  befalling  her?  Was  she 
happy?  Had  the  memory  of  the  past  faded  from  her  mind? 
This  pain  was  sharper  than  the  other,  though  Francesco  knew 
it  not.  It  healed  the  pang  of  fleshly  desire. 

He  called  to  his  steed,  mounted,  and  rode  on  with  a  new 
gravity.  According  to  his  curious  wont  in  concrete  experience, 
his  relations  with  Ilaria  became  the  index  to  wider  question 
ings. 

The  old  spell  had  been  renewed,  with  a  difference,  and 
Francesco  found  himself  trembling  on  the  verge  of  a  genuine 
passion.  Through  the  mystic  reverence  which  he  sought  to 
cultivate  towards  his  lady  flashed  the  allurement  of  the  senses, 
and  an  occasional  pang  of  reproach  for  his  own  cowardly  sur 
render.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  it,  as  he  rode  down 
the  long  hill  that  stretched  in  uneven  rise  and  fall  from  Tivoli 
to  Bracciano.  Not  that  it  troubled  him,  to  find  in  his  own 
love  an  earthly  taint;  many  he  knew  who  had  struggled,  had 
conquered,  not  without  salt-tears.  But  to  distrust  the  bright 
ness  of  his  lady's  image ;  this  surely  in  the  annals  of  high  love 
was  a  crime  unparalleled.  He  tried  to  cast  the  evil  thought 
aside,  to  exalt  at  once  his  love  and  his  ideal.  Breathing  the 
morning  air,  the  thing  seemed  possible.  The  situation  helped; 

188 


THE    RED    TOWER 

delicate  enough  to  tickle  his  sense  of  honor,  dramatic  enough 
to  absorb  fancy. 

The  Ilaria  of  the  ilex-wood  grew  dim  as  a  fading  fresco  to 
Francesco's  memory.  He  saw  in  her  stead  the  little  maid  of 
the  old  castle  of  Avellino,  whose  waywardness,  whose  bright 
and  ready  gaiety  had  seemed  to  his  more  despondent  tempera 
ment  a  gift  of  enchanting  sweetness.  Thinking  of  these  things, 
dubious  traits  vanished  from  her  image ;  she  shone  before  his 
eyes,  the  piteous  lady  of  his  desire,  and  the  devotion  for  which 
he  longed  rose  ardent  within  him.  It  brought  a  fulness  to  the 
throat,  to  the  eyes  a  smart  which  he  coaxed  into  a  tear.  Then 
he  rode  on  in  a  happier  mood.  The  dark  trees,  which  crowned 
the  hill,  were  giving  way  as  he  descended  to  a  wood  of  fresher 
green. 

It  was  now  verging  towards  evening.  Francesco  had  reached 
the  top  of  a  lower  ridge,  from  which  the  towers  of  Camaldoli, 
seen  through  a  gap  in  the  trees,  rose  shadowy  against  the 
fading  blue  of  the  horizon.  The  path,  hardly  more  than  a  foot- 
trail,  had  been  lonely.  Now  a  priest  came  ambling  up  on 
mule-back,  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  pleasant  woodland.  At 
the  sight  of  Francesco  he  dropped  them  on  his  breviary,  and 
passed  on  without  word  or  sign. 

For  a  moment  the  action  struck  him  as  a  smart. 

The  sight  of  the  Office-book  had  opened  the  door  of  another 
chamber  in  the  house  of  Mind,  that  mysterious  dwelling  which 
always  numbers  rooms  which  the  owner  has  never  entered, 
and  others,  closed  in  long  disuse. 

At  that  moment  the  faint  spark  of  devotion  passed  into  a  large 
indifference.  In  his  early  youth  Francesco  had  been  in  the 
habit  —  how  acquired  he  could  not  have  told  —  of  repeating, 
whenever  possible,  the  canonical  hours.  He  had  long  aban 
doned  the  custom,  as  far  as  intention  went;  yet  hi  some  for 
gotten  chapel  of  the  mind,  deserted  of  the  conscious  powers, 
the  holy  rites  go  on  forever,  biding  the  time  of  their  recall. 

189 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

He  was  as  one  in  the  grip  of  a  bitter  wrong;  for  through  the 
jostling  images  which  filled  his  mind,  the  Office  continued  to 
ring  in  persistent  undertones. 

The  light  between  the  great  tree  trunks  grew  from  splendor 
to  splendor ;  flashing  its  level  glories  through  the  forest,  trans 
figuring  the  wood  into  flame.  The  sun  had  reached  the  rim 
of  the  horizon.  Some  far  memory  of  brilliance  was  stirring 
and  seeking.  A  pageant,  withal,  but  not  that  triumph  of  earthly 
love,  so  fair  in  the  false  twilight  of  a  night  in  the  past,  so  wiz 
ened  gray  and  lustful  red  in  the  light  of  recollection.  The 
beams  of  the  sinking  sun  were  seven  candle-sticks  of  gold. 
What  noble  elders  follow,  crowned  with  fleurs-de-lis?  What 
mystic  chariot  was  this,  within  which  rides  a  woman  olive- 
garlanded,  robed  in  hues  of  living  fire  and  of  the  fresh  spring 
grass?  Memory  found  what  it  sought :  but  he  who  thus  looked 
back  into  the  past  was  unaware  that  neither  Lethe  nor  Eunoe 
might  be  his,  who  had  not  yet  climbed  the  Purgatorial  Mound. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west  when  Francesco  came  to 
a  ridge  hi  the  woodland,  which  sloped  southward  from  the  high 
rocks.  The  path  seemed  to  lead  into  the  heart  of  a  wilder 
ness.  Pine  woods  bordered  it  and  dead  bracken  and  whortle 
berry  spread  away  under  the  stiff  shadows  of  the  silent  trees. 
A  thousand  spires  began  to  blacken  against  the  sunset,  and 
Francesco  was  aware  that  he  was  carrying  a  savage  hunger. 
He  had  hoped  for  a  manor-house  or  inn,  or  some  woodman's 
lodge,  but  the  brambles  that  had  rooted  then-  long  feelers  across 
the  path  made  it  appear  that  the  track  had  not  been  used  for 
years.  So  rough  and  tangled  did  it  become  that  Francesco 
turned  in  among  the  trees,  where  the  dense  summer  foliage 
of  the  beeches  had  kept  the  ground  clear  of  brush  and 
bramble. 

The  prospect  of  a  supperless  night  under  the  trees,  even 
though  he  had  never  been  clogged  with  heavy  feeding  at  the 
monastery,  made  Francesco's  thoughts  hark  back  to  the  inn  he 

190 


THE     RED     TOWER 

had  left  at  Viterbo,  and  he  regretted  not  having  supplied  him 
self  with  a  stock  of  provisions  ere  he  departed. 

The  sun  had  now  completely  set  and  the  shadows  of  the 
rocks  had  shifted,  so  that  some  which  had  been  concealed, 
projected,  while  others  vanished  into  darkness.  A  red  glare 
down  a  pile  of  gigantic  boulders,  crowned  with  pines  of  im 
mense  height,  the  trunks  of  which  were  so  weather-stained  as 
to  seem  of  old,  rusty  iron,  revealed  a  steep  and  very  narrow 
defile,  which,  after  ascending  for  a  short  space,  apparently 
broke  off  abruptly  in  mid-air.  But  on  reaching  the  summit, 
Francesco  found  that  the  path  continued,  descending  through 
a  sloping  forest,  which  clothed  the  wild  and  rugged  hillsides. 
Thence,  by  a  winding  succession  of  precipices  alongside  a 
torrent,  whose  foaming  waters  were  lost  in  the  blue  depths 
below,  he  emerged  on  a  species  of  platform  of  bare  rocks,  sup 
porting  the  approach  of  a  bridge. 

To  cross  this  bridge,  which  was  scarcely  wide  enough  for  a 
single  passenger,  that  had  no  parapet  and  seemed  to  shake 
with  the  thunder  of  the  cataract,  whose  white  waves  rolled  at  a 
ghastly  depth  below,  appeared  a  scarcely  possible  feat  for  a 
horseman.  Francesco  however  crossed  the  span  leisurely, 
even  checking  his  steed  in  the  centre  of  the  bridge  and  sur 
veying  the  cataract  with  calm  attention. 

The  waters,  rushing  in  a  vast  body  over  the  highest  pile  of 
rocks,  fell  in  one  headlong  sheet  to  another  which  jutted  con 
siderably,  and  dashed  themselves  into  a  sea  of  foam,  rolling 
over  in  a  hundred  separate  torrents,  which  in  their  turn  were 
flung  and  torn  to  pieces  on  the  precipices  they  encountered  in 
their  descent. 

The  hollow  darkness  beyond,  however,  was  pierced  by  the 
ray  of  a  single  light,  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  window 
of  a  tower  or  castellated  mansion,  that  might  have  been  the 
abode  of  some  robber  baron  or  feudal  lord,  who  levied  toll  upon 
all  whose  business  or  ill  chance  led  them  into  this  wilderness. 

191 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

Whether  or  not  he  might  parley  with  the  lord  of  this  sombre 
castello,  Francesco  preferred  the  chances  to  parleying  with  his 
empty  stomach,  and  after  having  slowly  penetrated  the  wilder 
ness,  he  reached  a  massive  gate  between  two  high  cliffs,  formed 
of  pine  boles  welded  together  with  iron. 

A  twisted  brass  horn,  finely  polished,  hung  at  the  entrance, 
as  at  the  drawbridge  of  some  giant's  castle  in  old  romance, 
which,  when  Francesco  blew  in  it,  gave  out  a  singularly  wild, 
screeching  blast,  being  probably  fashioned  so  as  to  utter  a 
shrill  cry  which  could  be  distinguished  above  the  noise  of  the 
cataract. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  then  from  the  narrow  window 
above  the  causeway  came  the  sullen  question  who  desired 
swift  execution  for  disturbing  the  peace  of  the  castle. 

Francesco  peered  through  the  darkness  in  quest  of  the 
speaker,  but  only  the  dim  outline  of  a  form  was  visible  in  the 
dusk  of  approaching  night,  giving  no  clue  to  the  personality  of 
the  warden. 

Bringing  to  his  aid  the  memory  of  the  days  when  the  monk 
ish  gown  had  not  clogged  his  steps  and  debased  his  manhood, 
Francesco  summoned  courage  to  state  his  business,  where 
upon  his  unseen  interlocutor  was  heard  to  mutter  sundry 
phrases  which  savored  not  of  devotion  and  bade  him  await 
his  pleasure. 

After  a  time  Francesco  heard  the  grating  of  chains,  the  draw 
bridge  was  lowered  and  a  sinister-looking  individual,  whose 
reddish  hair  gleamed  in  weird  contrast  to  his  coal-black  livery, 
withdrew  the  heavy  wooden  bolts  and  beckoned  Francesco  to 
follow  him. 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  latter's  frame  as  he  dismounted 
in  an  inner  court,  while  his  guide  was  watching  him  closely, 
as  if  trying  to  reconcile  the  garb  of  the  monk  with  the  person 
of  him  who  wore  it.  For  a  moment  Francesco  was  even 
tempted  to  decline  the  proffer  of  food  and  lodging,  for  so  for- 

192 


THE     RED     TOWER 

bidding  was  the  appearance  of  the  castellan,  so  sombre  and 
mysterious  the  massive  masonry  which  towered  above  him 
in  the  night,  that  even  the  perils  he  might  encounter  among 
the  outlaws  of  the  marshes  seemed  preferable.  But  he  was 
spent,  and  so  was  his  steed,  and  he  surprised  a  certain  inscru 
table  expression  in  the  eyes  of  his  companion,  as  if  the  latter 
had  divined  his  thoughts. 

The  old  spirit  of  the  court  rose  dominant  within  him,  con 
quering  the  dread  in  Francesco,  and  after  his  steed  had  been 
taken  away  by  a  groom  whose  equally  forbidding  appearance 
argued  little  in  favor  of  the  abode  or  his  master,  he  reluctantly, 
but  with  firm  steps,  followed  his  guide  into  the  dark  well-like 
entrance  of  the  ponderous  portals. 

After  having  traversed  a  number  of  galleries  they  emerged 
in  a  chamber  dimly  lighted  by  perfumed  wax  torches,  in  which 
two  persons  were  seated.  As  his  guide  pushed  back  the  heavy 
arras,  there  were  revealed  to  Francesco's  gaze  the  form  of  a 
man  and  a  woman.  At  the  sight  of  their  guest,  the  man  pre 
cipitately  arose  and,  whispering  a  few  words  in  the  woman's 
ear,  retreated  by  an  opposite  door. 

So  absorbed  was  Francesco  in  the  scrutiny  of  his  surround 
ings,  that  he  hardly  noticed  the  action  of  the  one  of  the  occu 
pants.  He  remained  motionless  upon  the  threshold,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  woman's  voice  bade  him  approach  that  he 
did  so,  though  reluctantly  and  as  one  obeying  an  impulse  not 
his  own. 

The  woman  was  reclining  on  a  dais,  and  regarded  him  in 
tently,  as  he  preferred  his  request  for  a  night's  hospitality. 
Then  she  bade  him  take  the  seat  vacated  by  its  former  occu 
pant,  and  while  his  repast  was  being  prepared,  began  to  regard 
him  with  undisguised  interest. 

The  chamber  itself  revealed  a  certain  effeminate  luxury, 
which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  forbidding  aspect  of  the 
castle.  It  resembled  rather  a  deep,  semi-domed  alcove, 

193 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

approached  from  the  adjoining  room  by  a  short  avenue  of 
square-sided  pillars,  and  roofed  with  mosaics  of  ultra-marine 
and  gold.  Entablatures  of  white  marble  carved  into  bas- 
relief  filled  the  intervening  spaces;  the  pillars  themselves,  of 
dark  green  panels,  inlaid  on  white,  were  sprayed  and  flowered 
with  exquisite  mouldings  in  gold. 

For  a  moment,  Francesco  was  mute.  The  incongruousness 
of  the  situation  and  the  suddenness  of  the  transition  had  de 
prived  him  of  speech.  Perhaps  it  was  also  the  woman's  utter 
fearlessness  of  manner,  which  had  a  somewhat  disconcerting 
effect  upon  one  who  had  foregone  woman's  society  for  a  long 
space  of  time,  and  which  caused  the  consciously  awkward 
silence,  as,  now  and  then,  their  eyes  met. 

Her  face  had  a  singular  charm,  with  its  blue  eyes  and  the 
small  crimson  mouth.  She  was  of  medium  height;  her  pro 
portions  faultless.  The  bare  white  arms  were  exquisitely 
formed.  The  straight  white  throat  rose  like  an  ivory  column 
from  the  neck  to  the  delicate  lobe  of  the  faultless  ear.  Low  on 
her  forehead  the  golden  waves  of  her  silken  hair  were  drawn 
and  tied  in  a  Grecian  knot.  All  in  her  face  seemed  life,  from 
her  forehead  to  her  eyes,  deeper  than  sapphires,  to  the  living 
coral  of  her  lips. 

She  wore  a  crimson  robe  of  softest  texture,  clinging  har 
moniously  to  her  exquisite  form.  For  a  time  she  watched 
Francesco,  her  arms  thrown  back  under  her  head,  and  when 
ever  he  looked  up,  their  whiteness  made  him  dizzy  and  he  bent 
anew  over  the  food  which  had  been  set  before  him,  and  which 
he  devoured  with  nervous  haste. 

Yet  all  unconsciously  she  drew  from  him  his  tale.  Her 
swift  comprehension  was  as  a  magic  mirror,  wherein  all  crea 
tures  showed  theur  thoughts.  He  told  her  of  his  youth  and  the 
days  at  the  court,  and  of  his  love  for  one  now  lost  to  him  for 
ever.  He  told  her  of  the  life  at  the  cloister,  of  the  prior,  of 
the  monks,  of  the  misery  of  isolation,  —  and  he  knew  not  why. 

194 


THE     RED     TOWER 

And  the  woman  listened,  drawing  closer  to  him  as  if  uncon 
sciously,  as  he  spoke,  yet  without  as  much  as  touching  his 
garb.  He  noted  it  not,  though  once  he  thought  that  he  felt 
her  warm  breath  fan  his  cheek.  And  as  he  spoke  Francesco 
did  not  see  a  dim  figure  with  a  white,  drawn  face  peer  into  the 
hall,  then  pass  out  behind  the  hangings,  turning  half  furtively 
to  look  at  the  twain  at  the  board,  before  it  disappeared  from 
sight. 

After  having  finished  his  repast  and  his  tale,  Francesco  took 
courage  to  look  upon  the  woman's  face.  There  was  a  rich 
beauty  upon  it,  the  rose  tints  of  the  skin  warm  and  sensuous 
as  the  bloom  upon  fruit. 

Her  smile  was  very  tender. 

"  And  you  will  never  love  again?  "    she  queried  softly. 

He  held  his  head  high,  yet  there  was  a  great  bitterness  in 
his  voice  when  he  spoke,  looking  past  her  into  space. 

"  Even  if  I  dared  —  I,  the  monk,  —  how  can  I  give  to  one 
that  which  is  another's?  " 

He  stared  at  the  flickering  torchlight  as  he  spoke,  but  had 
he  looked  into  the  woman's  eyes,  he  might  have  seen  a  sudden 
glitter  of  light  shiver  up  in  them. 

He  spoke  to  her  of  his  visit  to  Viterbo,  of  his  journey  to 
Naples.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  he  should  conceal  the 
goal  of  his  journey  from  her.  She  was  watchful  and  listened 
and  her  bosom  heaved,  as  she  bent  towards  him. 

"  You  journey  to  Naples,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  strange 
smile,  in  which  shone  her  white  teeth,  dazzling  as  those  of 
some  beautiful  beast  of  prey,  while  she  covered  his  hands  with 
her  own,  and  her  strange  eyes  looked  into  his.  "  Do  you  hope 
to  escape  the  contagion  of  that  Court  of  Love?  " 

Her  face  seemed  suddenly  ablaze  with  intense  passion,  the 
pupils  of  her  eyes  enlarging  and  gleaming  like  points  of  flame. 

Her  hands  burned  him  like  living  fire. 

"  Hot  blood,  and  a  cold  ending,"  he  said,  looking  past  her, 

195 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

and  she  took  her  hands  from  his  and  sat  silent,  her  eyes  fixed 
with  a  curious  expression  upon  his  face.  Then  she  clapped  her 
hands.  An  attendant  conducted  Francesco  to  a  chamber 
which  had  been  prepared  for  him,  but  as  he  passed  out  of  her 
presence,  he  still  felt  the  burning  touch  of  her  fingers  and  the 
strange  look  hi  her  eyes. 

Sleep  would  not  come  to  Francesco,  notwithstanding  the 
fatigue  of  the  day,  for  his  thoughts  still  had  their  way  with 
him  and  they  were  none  too  happy  thoughts.  He  drew  his 
couch  near  the  window  and  stretched  himself  upon  it,  slowly 
like  one  worn  by  weariness  and  pain.  It  was  a  hot  and  breath 
less  night.  Thunder  was  muttering  distantly  and  vague  light 
nings  played  hide-and-seek  among  the  clouds.  The  earth 
seemed  to  wait  in  breathless  suspense  for  the  storm  that 
menaced  and  would  not  break. 

Francesco  had  lived  through  many  strange  moments  since 
he  had  left  Monte  Cassino  and  chance  had  thrown  him  with  a 
singular  suddenness  into  the  seething  vortex  of  the  life  of  the 
world.  Vividly  hi  the  midst  of  his  wakefulness  he  saw  the 
proud  beauty  of  Ilaria,  as  contrasted  with  the  alluring  enchant 
ment  of  the  woman  into  whose  ears  he  had  poured  his  strange 
confidences,  and  who  had  listened  to  him  with  something  more 
than  passing  interest,  though  her  name  he  knew  not,  nor  the 
name  of  her  abode. 

Never  had  Francesco  felt  so  strangely  oppressed,  as  if  round 
the  couch  on  which  he  was  restlessly  tossing  there  thronged 
weird  shapes  and  sinister  phantoms.  A  strange  dizziness  had 
begun  to  seize  upon  him.  He  became  conscious  of  desires, 
that  had  long  slumbered  in  his  soul,  but  had  suddenly  been 
awakened  within  him,  that  youth  cried  for  youth  and  the  voice 
of  nature  was  mightier  than  the  self-imposed  unnatural  re 
straint.  The  woman  was  beautiful,  lithe  and  limp  as  a  snake, 
and  he  instinctively  felt  that,  once  she  had  set  her  mind  upon 
gratifying  a  desire,  resistance  would  be  utterly  unavailing. 

196 


THE     RED     TOWER 

Francesco  tossed  restlessly  upon  his  pillows.  The  very 
weariness  of  his  limbs  seemed  to  act  as  an  antidote  to  slum 
ber.  No  sooner  did  he  close  his  eyes  than  they  seemed  to 
open  of  their  own  accord,  obedient  to  the  unrest  of  his  brain. 

It  occurred  to  him  at  last  to  examine  the  chamber  which 
had  been  assigned  to  him.  On  a  sudden  impulse  he  arose  and 
traversed  its  length  and  breadth.  Of  octagon  shape,  it  pos 
sessed  but  one  exit,  the  door  through  which  he  had  entered. 
After  examining  the  bolt,  he  found  that  he  had  drawn  it,  and 
listened  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  convince  himself  that  no  one 
had  surprised  his  movements.  Every  one  in  the  castle  seemed 
to  be  asleep.  Then  Francesco  stepped  to  the  window.  The 
moon  was  hidden  behind  a  heavy  cloud  bank,  palpitating  with 
lightnings,  but  by  their  swiftly  vanishing  torches  he  saw  that  it 
was  too  high  to  permit  of  safe  descent  into  the  shadowy  court 
below  in  the  event  of  danger.  Why  he  thought  of  it  at  all  he 
could  not  have  explained. 

After  having  finished  his  tour  of  exploration,  Francesco  again 
sought  his  couch.  The  cool  breeze  which  had  sprang  up  once 
more  bathed  his  fevered  brow  and  he  slowly  drifted  into  a 
slumber  in  which  strange  dream  phantoms  thronged  about 
him.  This  time  it  was  the  parting  scene  from  Ilaria  on  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  night  in  the  park  of  Avellino;  but  as  the 
girlish  form  faded  slowly  away,  he  found  himself  gazing  into 
the  laughing  blue  eyes  of  the  woman  with  whom  he  had  supped. 

He  waked  with  a  start,  so  real  seemed  the  dream,  and  it  was 
some  time  ere  sleep  would  again  come  to  his  eyes.  And  then 
it  seemed  not  sleep,  rather  a  deep  trance,  that  seemed  to  hold 
him  enthralled,  seemed  to  benumb  his  limbs,  and  deprive  him 
of  all  energy,  as  if  some  opiate  had  been  mingled  with  the 
draught  he  had  partaken  of  on  his  arrival. 

A  flash  of  lightning,  that  seemed  to  rend  the  very  heavens, 
was  followed  by  a  peal  of  thunder,  which  shook  the  tower  in 
its  very  foundations.  Francesco  started,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he 

197 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

became  suddenly  conscious  of  an  arch  in  the  heavy  stone 
parting.  In  the  opening  there  stood  a  woman  clad  in  a  white, 
filmy  gown,  which  clung  gossamer-like  to  her  exquisitely  pro 
portioned  form.  She  remained  for  a  time  upon  the  threshold, 
her  eyes  resting  upon  the  supposed  sleeper.  When  she  saw 
his  gaze  fixed  upon  her  as  upon  an  apparition  from  the  nether 
world,  she  uttered  a  low  laugh,  and  entered  the  chamber, 
whereupon  the  aperture  closed  noiselessly  behind  her. 

Francesco  stared  at  her  wide-eyed,  afraid  to  speak,  afraid  to 
move. 

Was  it  indeed  the  woman  by  whose  side  he  had  partaken 
of  drink  and  food,  —  was  it  some  restless  phantom,  haunting 
the  abode  of  former  days? 

The  woman  had  slowly  approached  the  couch,  from  which 
Francesco  had  arisen  as  the  truth  pierced  his  brain  in  the 
swift  comprehension  of  his  own  helplessness. 

"  You  are  awake?  "  she  said  in  a  whisper,  holding  out  both 
of  her  hands  to  him. 

He  looked  about,  not  daring  to  move,  not  daring  to  speak. 

And  suddenly  the  intimate  dimness  of  the  room  was  sur 
charged  with  a  faint  perfume,  as  the  woman  bent  over  him, 
looking  at  him  steadily,  holding  his  eyes  with  her  deep,  in 
scrutable  gaze. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  couch.  Her  fine  finger 
tips  rested  on  his  shoulders,  preventing  him  from  rising.  He 
saw  the  snowy  whiteness  of  her  arms,  bare  to  the  shoulders, 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  soft  curves  of  the  lithe  body  under  the 
clinging,  transparent  texture  of  a  gown,  vying  in  whiteness  with 
her  skin. 

He  looked  up  and  trembled. 

"  Why  are  you  here?  "  he  said  in  a  fear-struck  voice. 
"  What  do  you  want  with  me?  " 

She  laughed,  tossing  him  a  glittering  challenge  with  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  afraid?  " 

198 


THE     RED     TOWER 

Again  her  white  teeth  shone  in  her  smile;  again  her  low 
laughter  wooed  his  ear;  her  strange  eyes  thrilled  him  through 
and  through.  And  bending  low,  she  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"I  have  tricked  you!" 

He  started  to  rise,  grasping  the  white  soft  hands  in  his  own, 
and  relinquishing  them  the  next  moment,  as  if  he  had  touched 
fire.  She  held  him  easily  with  a  glance  of  her  strange  eyes. 

"  Come  —  let  me  show  you,  —  "  she  said,  taking  him  by 
the  hand  and  leading  him  towards  the  window,  which  looked 
out  upon  the  court  below. 

He  followed  resistlessly. 

"  You  told  me  you  would  never  love  again  —  " 

He  nodded. 

"Never!" 

"Ah,"  she  laughed,  mockingly,  "you  do  not  know!  You 
seek  for  light  where  the  sun  can  never  shine.  And  meanwhile 
she,  the  lady  of  your  dreams,  is  she  abstaining  like  your  noble 
self  ?  " 

He  tried  to  speak,  to  protest,  but  she  silenced  him,  by  placing 
one  hand  over  his  mouth,  while  she  drew  him  into  the  recess 
of  the  window. 

In  a  flash,  he  felt  her  arms  about  him,  drawing  him  close  to 
her.  She  threw  words  in  his  face  with  a  fierce,  intimate  whis 
pering. 

Francesco  recoiled,  as  if  he  had  been  bitten  by  a  snake. 
But  the  magic  was  too  strong  for  his  starved  senses ;  ever  and 
ever  she  caught  him  towards  her,  kissing  him  with  moist, 
hungry  lips,  while  her  eyes  scintillated  hi  strange  lights  that 
made  him  dizzy,  and  her  arms  were  coiled  about  him  with  a 
strength  he  had  not  guessed. 

With  a  choking  outcry  he  succeeded  at  last  in  releasing 
himself,  and  turning  to  the  door,  tore  at  it,  and  found  it  fast 
ened  on  the  other  side. 

He  stood  there,  facing  her,  white  with  fear,  anger,  passion. 

199 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

He  knew  if  she  willed  to  make  him  her  own,  he  was  lost,  and 
she  came  slowly  towards  him,  with  the  soundless  tread  of  a 
tigress  who  has  cornered  her  prey. 

She  was  regarding  him  with  a  strange  amused  smile,  then 
she  held  out  her  white  arms. 

"  Are  these  charms  so  poor,  that  they  must  go  begging?  " 
she  said  with  a  return  of  the  sardonic  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"  In  the  name  of  mercy  —  go!  "  he  stammered  with  blind, 
pleading  eyes. 

"  The  halo  cannot  fail  you,"  she  replied  with  her  low  laugh, 
as  her  glance  of  derision  swept  him  from  head  to  foot.    "  Fool 
—  fool !  "    She  placed  her  hands  tightly  about  his  throat,  look 
ing  into  his  eyes. 

"  Should  you  learn  at  the  Court  of  Naples  to  value  the 
earthly  joys  more  than  the  heavenly,  —  return,  —  and  be 
forgiven !  "  —  She  kissed  him  and  sent  him  reeling  against 
the  wall. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  paralyzed,  facing  her  in  the  darkness, 
while  her  laughter,  now  high  and  shrill,  resounded  in  his  ears. 
Maddened  he  rushed  at  her,  trying  to  detain  her,  as  she  reached 
the  arch.  But  as  the  panel  parted,  a  shadow  suddenly  passed 
between  him  and  the  woman.  The  moon  had  emerged  from 
the  cloud,  behind  which  she  had  been  hidden.  Francesco 
recoiled  and  staggered  back  into  his  chamber,  as  if  he  had 
been  dealt  a  sudden  blow.  For,  swift  as  the  shadow  had  van 
ished  that  had  come  between  them,  ere  the  panel  closed  behind 
the  woman,  —  he  had  recognized  the  face  of  Raniero  Frangi- 
pani. 


End  of  Book  the  Third. 


?oo 


Book  the  Fourth 

THE  PASSION 


CHAPTER  I 


SIREN    LAND 


T  was  early  on  the  following 
morning  when  Francesco  saddled 
his  steed  and  departed  from  the 
Red  Tower.  He  did  not  trust 
himself  to  remain  longer  under 
the  same  roof  with  the  woman 
whose  spell  boded  evil  to  soul 
and  body,  much  less  to  face 
Raniero  Frangipani  and  to  have 
his  worst  fears  and  suspicions 
confirmed.  He  had  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  awake  with 
the  shadows,  dazed,  unable  to  think,  beset  by  weird,  mocking 
phantoms.  The  woman's  insatiate  kisses  still  burned  on  his 
lips;  her  strange  perfume  still  clung  to  the  air;  her  passion 
had  seared  his  soul.  If  he  remained,  he  was  lost.  The  spark 
that  had  slumbered  in  his  soul  had  suddenly  leaped  into  a 
consuming  flame;  the  voice  of  the  body,  hushed  so  long, 
began  to  clamor;  the  long  restraint  threatened  to  break  down 
the  self-imposed  barriers  with  its  own  sheer  weight.  A  strange 
dizziness  had  seized  him;  everything  seemed  to  swim  in  a 
blood-red  haze.  It  was  only  by  degrees  that  reason  re 
turned;  the  phantom  of  desire  faded  before  the  memory  of 
Ilaria. 

Almost  dazed  he  crossed  the  mere,  expecting  every  moment 
to  hear  the  ferryman  recalled  and  resolved  to  resist  to  the 
utmost  any  attempt  to  stop  his  departure. 
But  nothing  happened.    An  enchanted  silence  encompassed 

203 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

the  castle,  unbroken  even  by  the  voices  of  the  slowly  awaken 
ing  dawn. 

Thousand  and  one  thoughts,  desires  and  fears  rushed 
through  Francesco's  brain,  as  he  rode  down  into  the  picturesque 
valley,  which  encompassed  the  feudal  masonry  where  he  had 
spent  the  night.  And  with  the  memory  of  the  white  arms, 
which  had  held  him  in  their  close  embrace,  with  the  memory 
of  the  thirstily  parted  lips,  which  had  well-nigh  kissed  him  to 
his  doom,  with  the  memory  of  the  haunting  eyes  which  had  dis 
coursed  to  him  a  secret  he  was  never  to  know,  an  indescrib 
able  longing  for  happiness  stole  into  his  heart,  a  longing  which 
made  him  utterly  oblivious  of  time  and  space  and  caused  him 
to  spur  his  steed  to  greater  haste  in  the  desire  to  arrive  at  his 
goal. 

Little  as  Francesco  had  mingled  with  the  world,  inexperi 
enced  as  he  was  in  mundane  matters,  his  instinct  had  not  been 
slow  to  inform  him  that  Raniero  was  leading  a  double  life, 
that  he  was  deceiving  Ilaria,  who  perchance  trusted  him 
utterly.  The  certainty  of  the  indisputable  fact  struck  him  with 
quick  pang.  Was  Ilaria  awake  to  the  truth?  And  what  had 
been  the  effect  of  the  stunning  revelation? 

In  the  ban  of  these  conflicting  emotions,  in  which  love  and 
doubt  alternately  held  the  balance  in  the  scales,  Francesco 
rode  towards  Circe's  land. 

On  all  sides  lonely  stretches  of  country  expanded  before  the 
solitary  horseman's  eyes.  With  each  onward  step  the  scene 
changed,  and  Francesco's  abstracted  gaze  roamed  far  away 
to  the  distant  mountain  ranges  of  the  Basilicata,  revealing 
reaches  of  fantastic  peaks  and  stretching  away  in  long  aerial 
lines  towards  the  sun-fraught  plains  of  Calabria. 

Though  he  pushed  onward  with  restless  determination, 
Francesco  was  compelled  to  devote  the  hours  of  high-noon  to 
rest  and  refreshments  in  this  cloister  or  that,  which  he  came 
upon  during  his  journey.  For  the  glare  of  the  August  sun  was 

204 


SIREN    LAND 

intense,  and  though  the  nights  were  cool,  the  roads  were  in 
fested  by  all  manner  of  outlaws,  making  progress  slow  and 
hazardous. 

While  at  a  Cistercian  monastery  during  the  siesta  hours 
on  the  third  day  of  his  journey,  the  first  tidings  of  a  battle 
between  the  hosts  of  Anjou  and  Conradino  reached  Fran 
cesco's  ear.  The  armies  had  met  at  Tagliacozzo  in  Apulia  — 
so  a  peasant  had  informed  the  monks  —  but  the  outcome  of  the 
conflict  was  shrouded  in  mystery.  The  monks,  chiefly  old 
men,  who  had  long  cast  the  vanities  of  the  world  behind 
them,  met  Francesco's  eager  questionings  with  mute  shrugs. 
The  quarrels  between  pope  and  emperor  meant  nothing  to 
them. 

Ever  southward  he  rode,  until,  breasting  the  moors,  he  saw 
the  strange,  tumultuous  magic  of  the  Maremmas  drifting 
into  the  vague  distance  of  night. 

The  summer  woods  in  the  valleys  were  as  a  rolling  sea, 
carved  out  of  ebony.  Hill  rose  beyond  hill,  each  more  dim 
and  misty  and  alluring.  A  great  silence  held.  Enchantment 
brooded  over  Terra  di  Lavoro. 

The  last  day  of  his  journey  had  come. 

The  torrid  plains  of  Torre  del  Greco  dreamed  deserted  in 
the  glow  of  the  noonday  sun.  The  leaves  of  the  palms  and 
the  branches  of  the  mimosa  hung  limp  and  motionless.  The 
sky  was  as  a  burning  sapphire.  The  glare  of  the  sun  was 
almost  insufferable,  as  it  fell  over  the  arid  expanse  of  the 
Neapolitan  Campagna  to  the  pencilled  line  of  the  southern 
horizon,  where  a  long  circle  divided  the  misty  shimmering 
dove-color  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea  from  the  pale,  sun-fraught 
sky. 

The  region,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  deserted. 
Almost  it  seemed  as  if  the  spell  of  a  magician  had  banished 
at  once  all  life  and  sound.  Mala  Terra  the  inhabitants  called 
the  stretches  beyond  the  Cape  of  Circe,  where,  grim  and  im- 

205 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

pregnable  upon  its  chalk  cliffs,  rose  Astura,  the  sinister  strong 
hold  of  the  Frangipani,  silent,  bleached  against  the  back 
ground  of  the  restless  waves,  which  laved  its  base. 

With  a  shudder  Francesco  skirted  the  dreary  castello,  and 
the  name  of  Ilaria  flew  to  his  lips.  Was  it  upon  yonder  lonely 
castle  height  she  was  waiting  Raniero's  return;  was  it  up 
yonder  the  thread  of  her  destiny  was  interminably  spinning 
itself  out  hi  self -consuming,  wasting  monotony?  Was  she, 
who  had  been  created  for  happiness,  slowly  pining  away, 
remote  from  all  she  loved  and  held  dear  on  earth?  Or  had  the 
lure  of  the  Siren  land  drawn  her  into  the  vortex  of  life  and  the 
passions  of  the  sun-kissed  shores?  Francesco  shivered  de 
spite  the  noonday  heat,  and,  fondling  the  ears  of  his  steed, 
urged  it  onward  over  the  rocky  expanse. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  heavens  when  Francesco  came 
within  sight  of  Naples.  From  Castellamare  to  Posilippo  the 
graceful  lines  of  the  gulf  rose  on  the  horizon;  the  blue  cone 
of  Vesuvius  was  wreathed  in  smoke;  Resina  and  Portici 
reposed  snugly  at  its  base.  Eagerly  Francesco's  eye  scanned 
the  outlines  of  spires  and  domes  as  he  rode  towards  the  city. 
The  surrounding  hillsides  were  scarlet  and  purple,  gold  and 
bronze,  and  great  masses  of  green  where  ilex-trees  and 
acanthus  grew.  The  wine-pressers  were  shouting  gaily. 
There  was  so  much  light  and  life  in  the  world,  and  he 
felt  almost  as  if  he  had  lost  them  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cloister. 

Military  rule,  he  saw,  as  he  drew  near,  obtained  in  the  place. 
To  the  challenge  of  the  sentry  at  the  gate  of  San  Gennaro  he 
gave  his  name,  and  "  From  Viterbo  "  repeated  the  soldier, 
calling  the  news  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"  From  Viterbo !  "  the  word  passed  on.  Through  the  arched 
gate,  Francesco  could  see  a  clustering  confusion  of  people. 
There  was  an  aspect  of  reckless  merriment  about  the  crowded 
streets. 

206 


SIREN    LAND 

A  tall  horseman,  just  inside  the  gate,  beckoned,  and  Fran 
cesco  rode  slowly  through  the  arch. 

"  From  Viterbo?  "  repeated  a  big  man  significantly.  "  Well, 
friend,  you  bear  no  olive !  Hardly  the  days  these  for  the  olive 
of  peace  to  circulate  in  Italy !  " 

A  snicker  ran  through  the  crowd. 

"  But,  nevertheless,  we  are  free  to  perceive  that  you  are  a 
messenger,  and  all  the  more  welcome !  " 

"  I  know  not  for  whom  you  take  me!  "  returned  Francesco. 
"  But  —  " 

"  Are  you  not  a  messenger?  "  interrupted  the  large  man. 

A  strange  audacity  possessed  Francesco  of  a  sudden. 

"  Certainly  I  am  a  messenger,"  he  returned  fearlessly,  — 
"  but  not  to  your  rebellious  city,  Messere !  " 

The  last  part  of  his  speech  was  either  not  heard,  or  not 
heeded,  for  at  the  first  there  was  loud  applause.  In  the  midst 
of  the  clamor,  Francesco  was  endeavoring  to  make  himself 
understood,  but  finding  his  efforts  futile,  he  resigned  himself 
to  silence,  and  was  carried  onward  with  the  crowd,  calm  as  the 
atom  at  the  centre  of  a  cyclone,  yet  noting  all  the  incidents  of 
the  way.  He  watched  the  streets  with  their  luxuriant  pictur- 
esqueness,  so  different  in  appearance  from  the  severe  and 
heroic  style  of  Viterbo.  At  last  Francesco  accosted  the  big 
horseman,  inquiring  the  direction  of  the  palace.  There 
upon  the  latter  became  more  civil  and  offered  to  accompany 
the  stranger  in  person.  This  innuendo  Francesco  thought  best 
to  decline,  giving  as  his  reason  that  he  intended  putting  up 
at  an  inn,  it  being  too  late  to  see  the  Regent. 

Having  received  the  desired  intelligence,  Francesco  aban 
doned  himself  for  the  nonce  to  the  charm  of  the  hour,  the  magic 
of  the  place.  As  he  rode  leisurely  through  the  streets,  crowds 
came  and  went  from  Santa  Maria.  Now  and  then  the  note 
of  a  mandolin  was  heard.  All  was  life,  mirth,  happiness !  How 
fair  this  city,  —  the  city  that  seemed  to  be  girt  only  by  lilies ! 

207 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

The  flower-girl,  nodding  and  smiling,  distributed  her  violets, 
embedded  in  geraniums.  The  blind  beggar  touched  his  harp; 
in  the  distance  were  heard  the  rhythmic  strains  of  a  Bar 
carole. 

Over  the  whole  gulf  a  faint,  transparent  mist  had  arisen. 

The  magnolias  shone  white  in  the  dying  light.  The  soughing 
of  the  wina  through  the  leafy  boughs  sounded  like  the  faint 
music  of  Aeolian  harps. 

The  dying  light  touched  the  walls  of  houses  and  palaces 
with  mellow  hues,  then  faded  away  before  the  swift  southern 
night.  Here  and  there  torches  gleamed;  then  the  city  grew 
silvery  in  the  moonlight  which  flooded  the  heavens. 

As  in  a  dream  Francesco  rode  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
the  horseman.  Again  he  was  to  enter  the  sphere  of  his  former 
life;  again  he  was  to  move  in  the  sphere  of  a  court,  again  he 
was  to  taste  the  life  of  the  past.  It  was  the  same,  —  yet  not 
the  same.  Then  he  had  been  happy,  care-free,  loving  and 
beloved.  Now  he  stood  alone,  looking  from  a  frosty  elevation 
upon  the  joys  of  life!  Would  the  dark  phantoms  of  the  past 
vanish,  here  in  this  radiant  air,  under  this  cloudless,  sun- 
fraught  sky? 

The  inn,  where  he  took  lodging,  was  built  after  the  manner 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  in  a  hollow  square.  It  was  of  white 
stone,  simple,  harmonious,  with  quaint  carvings  and  ornamen 
tations.  The  Byzantine  arches  of  the  cloistered  walks  were 
its  chief  beauty,  disclosing  a  vista  of  the  garden  with  its  orange 
trees  and  grape-vines ;  its  waving  rose  bushes,  which  encircled 
the  ancient  fountain.  A  long  parapet  of  dusky  tiles  left  open 
the  beautiful  view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples. 

After  Francesco's  steed  had  been  properly  cared  for,  after 
he  had  refreshed  himself  with  a  bath  and  had  partaken  of  food 
and  drink,  he  felt  irresistibly  drawn  into  the  vortex  of  gladsome 
humanity,  which  enlivened  the  streets  towards  the  Vice-regal 
palace. 

208 


SIREN    LAND 

What  an  enchanted  land  this  was,  contrasted  with  the  shad 
owy  courts  of  Viterbo,  that  hill-encircled  city  with  her  dusky 
shrubbery,  her  funereal  cypresses! 

How  fair  were  the  flowery  fields,  the  marble  villas,  encircling 
the  bay!  The  wonderful  glow  of  color  seemed  like  fairyland 
enchantment!  The  gaily  dressed  crowds  that  thronged  streets 
and  piazzas,  the  brilliant  processions,  continuing  way  into  the 
night,  the  mass  of  scarlet,  blue  and  gold,  which  flashed  out 
from  under  the  torch-light,  the  music,  the  tumult,  the  laughter, 
the  fantastic,  the  freedom :  —  here  life  was  indeed  but  a  merry 
holiday. 

The  night  was  radiant  Sky  and  houses  and  bay  were  aglow 
with  her  silver  beams.  Merry  groups  were  passing  to  and  fro. 
There  was  music,  singing,  happiness,  —  all  the  gentleness  of 
a  perfect  night. 

Francesco  walked  more  slowly  in  the  moonlight.  Suddenly 
a  couple  passed  him :  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  woman  wore 
a  crimson  cloak,  and  in  passing  she  looked  up  into  his  face. 
It  was  only  a  moment's  meeting;  but  all  the  color  had  faded 
from  Francesco's  cheeks.  He  looked  back:  they  had  dis 
appeared  among  the  throngs. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  still  as  one  paralyzed.  Could  his 
eyes  have  deceived  him?  Impossible!  He  could  never  mis 
take  that  face,  nor  was  there  another  like  it  on  earth!  He 
faltered,  stopped,  recovered  himself,  then  retraced  his  steps 
hi  search  of  the  two.  But  his  efforts  were  utterly  in  vain.  As 
one  dazed  he  returned  to  the  inn.  The  convent  bells  of  Santa 
Lucia,  pealing  the  midnight  hour,  found  him  pacing  up  and 
down  within  the  narrow  confines  of  his  chamber.  Now  and 
then  he  paused  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  Only  when  the 
noise  and  merriment  had  died  to  silence  he  sought  his  couch, 
but  it  was  long  ere  sleep  would  come  to  him.  For  in  the  woman 
with  the  unknown  cavalier,  who  had  passed  him  without  rec 
ognition,  he  had  recognized  Ilaria  Caselli. 

209 


CHAPTER  II 


THE   LADY   OF   SHADOWS 

T  was  early  on  the  following 
day  when  Francesco  took  the 
direction  of  the  palace.  The 
city  appeared  gay  and  bright; 
the  beautiful  isles  of  Ischia  and 
Capri,  like  twin  outposts  guard 
ing  an  earthly  paradise.  He 
had  arrived  at  the  hour  of  dusk, 
which  had  soon  faded  into  the 
swift  southern  night,  and  much 
of  the  magic  of  the  scene  had  thus  been  veiled  before  his 
gaze.  Now  he  saw  and  marvelled. 

All  around  stretched  the  bay  in  its  azure  immensity,  its 
sweeping  curves  bounded  on  the  left  by  the  rocky  Sorrentine 
promontory,  with  Sorrento,  Meta  and  a  cluster  of  little  fishing 
villages,  nestling  on  the  olive-clad  precipices,  half  hidden  by 
orange  groves  and  vineyards  and  the  majestic  form  of  Monte 
Angelo  towering  above.  Farther  along  the  coast  rose  Vesu 
vius,  the  tutelary  genius  of  the  scene,  its  vine-clad  lower 
slopes  presenting  a  startling  contrast  to  the  dark  smoke- 
wreathed  cone  of  the  mountain.  On  the  right  the  graceful 
undulations  of  the  Camaldoli  hills  descended  to  the  beauti 
fully  indented  bay  of  Putcoli,  while  Naples  herself,  with 
Portici  and  Torre  del  Greco,  reposed  as  a  marble  quarry  be 
tween  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay.  Beyond,  in  the  far  back 
ground,  the  view  was  shut  in  by  a  phantom  range  of  snowy 
peaks,  an  offshoot  of  the  Abruzzi  mountains,  faintly  discerned 
in  the  purple  haze  of  the  horizon. 

210 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

As  Francesco  strode  along  his  wonder  increased  step  by 
step.  He  seemed  to  have  invaded  the  realms  of  the  sun,  who 
sent  his  unrelenting  light  rays  down  upon  glistening  pavements 
composed  of  lava,  reflecting  the  beams  with  all  the  brilliancy 
of  mosaic.  Notwithstanding  the  glare  of  August,  balconies, 
casements,  terraces  and  galleries  were  enlivened  by  a  gay 
and  merry  crowd.  The  gloomy  fronts  of  marble  and  granite 
had  disappeared  under  silken  hangings  and  garlands  of  flow 
ers.  Everywhere  there  was  joy  and  gladness,  and  the  bells 
from  Santa  Chiara  rang  as  joyously  over  the  city  and  gulf  as  if 
the  papal  Inderdict  held  no  terrors  for  these  children  of  an 
azure  sky. 

The  situation  was  nevertheless  acute.  A  Clementine  court 
and  a  Ghibelline  populace,  who  defied  alike  the  Pontiff  and 
their  self-imposed  ruler.  Excommunication  was  hanging 
black  over  the  leaders  of  this  movement;  the  court  was  hi 
evil  moral  repute,  and  it  was  difficult  to  foresee  whither  matters 
were  drifting  under  these  sun-fraught,  cloudless  skies. 

Francesco  requested  and  obtained  immediate  audience 
of  the  Duke  of  Lerma,  Anjou's  representative  in  the  kingdom 
of  Sicily.  The  interview  being  terminated,  and  his  duties 
outlined,  he  strode  out  into  the  palace  gardens,  which  sloped 
in  picturesque  terraces  down  towards  the  bay. 

With  fevered  pulses  he  leaned  against  the  parapet  of  the 
broad  stone  wall  which  encircled  the  gardens,  his  eyes  resting 
on  the  enchanted  landscape,  the  clustered  towers  of  Naples, 
beyond  which  rose  the  smoke-wreathed  cone  of  Vesuvius. 
Thence  his  gaze  wandered  to  the  sea,  which  glowed  from 
rose  to  violet  and  sapphire,  all  melting  into  unity  of  lapis 
lazuli,  and  finally  down  into  the  Parthenopean  fields,  where 
the  atmosphere  heaved  with  the  pulsing  intensity  of  high 
noon. 

On  all  sides  the  spell  of  Circe  enfolded  him  triumphantly. 
Truly,  here  all  painful  breedings  might  be  forgotten,  where 

211 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

thought  and  sight  were  alike  suffused  with  the  radiance  of 
sea  and  sky.  It  was  a  place  of  dawns  and  sunsets,  of  lights 
rising  amber  in  the  East  over  purple  hills  and  amethystine 
waters;  of  magic  glows  at  evening  in  the  west  with  cypresses 
and  yews  carven  in  ebony  against  primrose  skies,  while  the 
terraces  blazed  with  flower-filled  urns,  and  roses  overspread 
the  balustrade  with  crimson  flame. 

How  vivid  the  life  of  the  past  weeks  stood  out  before  Fran 
cesco's  eyes,  a  life  crowned  by  the  memory  of  his  arrival  hi 
this  Siren  City,  and  his  strange  meeting  with  Ilaria.  It  seemed 
like  a  mocking  dream ;  yet,  the  pain  in  his  heart  informed  him, 
it  was  true! 

How  long  he  had  stood  there,  he  did  not  know,  when  he 
suddenly  gave  a  start. 

An  opening  door,  —  a  light  foot-fall  —  he  stood  face  to  face 
with  Ilaria. 

She  paused;  stately,  unsmiling,  reserved.  A  white  silence 
seemed  to  enfold  her  as  their  eyes  met. 

"  There  is  some  error,"  she  said,  with  a  retrograde  move 
ment.  "  I  will  withdraw  —  " 

"  There  is  no  error! "  the  words  leaped  from  Francesco's 
lips.  "  Or  perchance  there  is !  Well,  —  is  it  true?  " 

The  words  were  uttered  almost  brutally. 

"  I  do  not  understand !  "  she  replied  icily. 

"  Why  are  you  at  Naples?  " 

His  face  was  a  mere  whiteness  amid  shadows. 

"  Why  are  you  here?  "  she  replied,  straightening  with  a 
sharp  lifting  of  the  head. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  here  to  spy  on  you! " 

"  The  office  does  you  honor !  First,  a  traitor  —  then,  a 
spy  —  " 

Her  words  were  fierce  and  bitter. 

"  What  are  you  saying?  "  he  flashed.  "  Betrayal  is  not 
man's  prerogative  alone !  " 

212 


THE   LADY    OF   SHADOWS 

She  shuddered.  His  words  bit  brutally  into  the  truth.  For 
a  moment  she  stood  rigid,  searching  his  eyes  and  the  very 
depths  of  his  soul. 

And  so,  for  a  brief  space,  they  faced  each  other  in  silence. 
Francesco  acknowledged  anew,  and  with  a  mortal  pang,  that 
here  was  a  woman  for  whom  a  man  might  give  his  life  and 
count  it  naught.  A  woman  to  gain  whose  love,  a  man  might 
sell  his  soul.  Ilaria  had  come  into  her  own,  as  never  in  her 
earlier  youth.  Like  all  great  beauty,  hers  was  serious.  It 
had  acquired  a  touch  of  majesty  and  mystery,  a  depth  of  in 
tensity  and  significance. 

"  Is  Raniero  at  Naples?  "  Francesco  spoke  at  last. 

She  faced  him  defiantly,  as  if  resenting  his  attitude. 

"  I  knew  not  you  were  concerned  in  your  former  rival!  " 

Her  utterance  seemed  part  of  the  incomprehensible  cruelty 
of  life.  His  face  was  hard  and  white  as  he  regarded  her. 

"  Perchance  my  concern  is  all  for  my  present  one !  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  —  "  she  faltered,  her  hands  over  her 
bosom.  Yet  her  tone  had  lost  its  defiant  ring. 

As  in  mute  questioning  her  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

"  As  I  passed  down  the  Via  Forinara  last  night,  I  passed  a 
woman  and  a  man.  The  woman  was  garbed  in  crimson,  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  recognition  in  her  eyes.  The  woman  I 
knew.  Who  was  the  man?  " 

Ilaria' s  face  was  very  pale. 

"  What  is  he  to  you,  —  the  monk?  " 

He  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  Who  was  the  man?  " 

She  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"  Stefano  Maconi,  —  one  of  the  nobles  of  the  court!  "  she 
said,  with  a  drooping  of  the  head.  Then  with  a  quick  touch  of 
resentment:  "  Have  you  heard  the  name  before?  " 

Francesco  ignored  the  irony  of  her  tones. 

"  What  is  he  to  you?  "  he  queried  sternly.  His  face  looked 

213 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

pale  and  drawn,  his  eyes  shone  with  an  almost  supernatural 
lustre. 

"  Really,"  she  squirmed,  "  I  knew  not  that  I  stood  in  need 
of  a  confessor.  I  have  one  already,  —  and  I  do  not  intend  to 
supplant  him  with  another!  " 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question !  "  he  insisted.  "  To 
the  office  of  your  confessor  I  do  not  aspire.  I  am  not  suited 
for  that  exalted  position!" 

There  was  something  in  his  eyes  that  frightened  her. 

"  And  why?  "  —  she  faltered. 

"  I  should  not  prove  so  passive  a  listener !  " 

For  a  moment  she  faced  him  in  silence.  Then,  with  a  sud 
den  return  of  her  old  hauteur,  she  flashed: 

"  Of  what  do  you  accuse  me?  " 

He  did  not  speak.  But  the  look  he  gave  her  sent  the  hot 
blood  curdling  to  her  cheeks;  ebbing  back,  it  left  them  paler 
than  before. 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question !  "  he  said  at  last. 

She  lifted  heavy  lids  and  eyed  him  wondering,  as  one  waking 
from  a  dream. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me?  " 

"  What  is  Stefano  Maconi  to  you?  "  he  queried  more  fiercely, 
grasping  her  wrists,  and  compelling  her  to  raise  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  Stefano  Maconi  is  nothing  to  me !  "  she  replied  hoarsely. 

Never  had  he  spoken  thus  to  her.  As  their  eyes  met,  she 
noted  that  he  had  changed.  With  a  quick  pang  she  saw  how 
thin  and  haggard  he  had  grown. 

"  Is  this  the  truth?  "  Gropingly  her  hands  went  out  to 
him,  her  witch-like  eyes  held  his  own  and  like  the  cry  of  a 
tortured  soul  it  came  from  her  lips : 

"It  is  the  truth!" 

Her  voice  died  in  a  sob;  her  whole  body  was  shaken  with 
convulsive  tremors,  when  she  found  herself  caught  up  in  his 
arms. 

214 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

For  a  moment  she  abandoned  herself  wholly  to  his  embrace, 
while  terms  of  endearment  fell  deliriously  from  his  lips.  Again 
and  again  he  kissed  the  pale  lips,  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he 
loved  better  than  life. 

How  long,  it  seemed  to  Ilaria,  since  she  had  leaned  over 
the  parapets  of  Avellino,  had  watched  the  sunset  light  fade 
into  the  night !  And  one  night  of  all,  how  slowly  the  moon  had 
risen!  How  white  the  magnolias  had  shimmered,  while  the 
distant  Liris  sang  his  slumber  song !  How  the  red  roses  burned 
in  the  moonlight,  as  she  stole  down  the  path  to  meet  him ! 

How  long  ago  was  it?  Now,  she  could  remember  every 
detail  of  that  night;  how  she  started  when  a  sleeping  bird 
uttered  a  dream  note  among  the  leafy  boughs,  how  she  lis 
tened  to  her  own  heart-beats,  how  she  found  herself  caught 
up  in  Francesco's  arms. 

All  her  youth,  all  her  days  had  been  poisoned  by  the  thought 
of  what  she  had  done.  Resolutely,  day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  had  she  fought  against  the  demon  of  remorse.  She 
had  shut  eyes  and  ears  to  the  haunting  spectre  of  the  past. 
And  now,  steadily,  pitilessly,  she  went  back,  step  for  step, 
through  the  hell  of  her  past  life,  the  mockery  that  was  bitterer 
than  death,  the  horror  of  loneliness,  the  slow,  grinding,  relent 
less  agony  of  her  nights  and  days. 

The  crowding  phantoms  of  the  past  would  not  release  her 
from  their  shadowy  grip.  Why  had  he  again  come  into  her 
life?  Why  had  he  again  crossed  her  path? 

Staggering,  he  released  her  at  last,  took  a  backward  step 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  I  have  tried  not  to  lay  hands  on  a  thing  that  it  is  not  mine 
to  touch." 

She  pointed  to  his  garb.  A  wondering  look  passed  into  her 
eyes. 

At  first  he  noted  it  not,  in  the  thrall  of  his  own  emotions. 
Then,  as  she  touched  him  lightly  upon  the  arm,  he  understood. 

215 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  I  am  here,  the  legate  of  Clement,  carrying  the  Interdict, 
unless  Naples  acknowledges  the  supremacy  of  the  Church! 
For  this  I  have  laid  aside  the  cowl !  " 

Ilaria  shivered.    He  was  still  a  monk,  —  after  all. 

There  was  nothing  she  could  do  to  help  him.  That  was  the 
bitterest  thing  of  all! 

Silence  seemed  to  bind  the  world  into  a  golden  swoon. 

"  Francesco,"  she  cried,  almost  with  a  sob. 

He  came  nearer  and  took  her  hands  again. 

"  Let  us  go  down  among  the  terraces !  "  she  said  in  a  whis 
per.  "  Let  us  forget  the  loud,  insistent  clamor  of  the  world. 
Let  us  be  quite  still,  —  as  if  we  were  among  the  poppy-flow 
ers!" 

By  some  strange  echoing  of  the  mind  the  idyls  of  past  days 
woke  like  the  songs  of  birds  after  a  storm  of  rain.  Her  whole 
soul  yearned  out  with  a  wistfulness  borne  of  infinite  regret. 

Silently  they  walked  down  the  flower-bordered  path. 

The  panorama  from  the  spot  was  enchanting.  Far  below 
lay  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay;  out  to  seaward  lay  ancient 
Baiae  with  her  thousand  palaces  and  the  forest  of  masts 
at  Puteoli;  beyond  these  Sorento  and  the  shimmering 
islands,  bathed  by  the  boundless  sea.  The  vaporous  cloud 
from  Vesuvius  hung  like  a  cone  of  snow  in  the  still  blue 
atmosphere. 

The  foreground  was  no  less  enchanting.  All  round  the 
pavilion  lay  a  verdant,  luxuriant  wilderness.  The  mysterious 
silence  of  noon  brooded  over  the  whole  landscape ;  only  a  faint 
hum  of  life  came  up  from  the  city.  All  else  was  still.  Not  a 
living  creature  seemed  to  breathe  within  ear-shot. 

He  led  her  to  where  a  f  ountain  plashed  in  the  sun  and  stone 
steps  ringed  a  quiet  pool. 

In  the  silence  she  bent  over  him,  her  hand  on  his  dark  hair. 

The  tonsure  burned  her  fingers  like  living  fire. 

"  Why  have  you  done  this  thing?  " 

216 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

He  felt  the  scorn  in  her  voice;  he  felt  the  swift  repellence 
of  her  body. 

Francesco  raised  his  face  to  that  of  the  woman.  It  was  very 
pale  from  the  fierceness  of  the  struggle  to  keep  down  even 
the  suspicion  of  emotional  sentimentality. 

"  You  ask  why  I  have  done  this  thing?  "  he  spoke  dryly  at 
last.  "  The  hour  has  come  when  I  must  tell  you,  Ilaria !  Not 
that  it  can  steer  the  vessel  of  our  lives  into  different  channels, 
-  but  that  at  last  I  may  stand  vindicated  in  your  sight.  I  am 
the  son  of  Gregorio  Villani,  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of  St. 
John.  My  mother  died  at  my  birth.  I  was  raised  at  the  Court 
of  Avellino.  So  powerful  was  the  influence  of  my  father,  that, 
notwithstanding  the  protests  of  the  Holy  See,  he  placed  his 
offspring  at  a  Ghibelline  court.  There  came  a  day  when  I 
was  summoned  to  the  bedside  of  my  father  at  San  Cataldo. 
What  passed  between  us  during  that  interview,  neither  you 
nor  any  one  on  earth  may  know.  I  went  into  his  room  a  happy, 
care-free  youth.  I  came  out  the  shadow  of  my  former  self,  — 
a  monk.  One  year  I  lived  among  shadows  in  the  Benedictine 
monastery  at  Monte  Cassino.  There  I  took  the  vows  which 
made  me  a  prisoner,  far  more  closely  bound  than  you  can 
know;  for  death  alone  shall  release  me  from  a  life  which  has 
grown  to  be  a  torture.  I  became  a  monk  half  from  pity,  hah* 
from  fear.  The  pity  is  almost  gone ;  the  fear  has  left  me  long 
ago.  After  a  time  I  was  called  to  Rome.  The  Church  I  love 
not!  I  am  unfit  to  remain  in  her  service.  The  monks  are  to 
me  a  hateful  body.  Willingly,  gladly,  would  I  see  my  scapular 
replaced  by  the  tunic  for  my  coffin.  Yet  death  is  not  for  me 
to  hope  for,  or  even  to  dream  of,  —  and  in  vain  I  ask,  what 
holds  the  future?  " 

Ilaria's  head  had  drooped  over  his;  her  eyes  wandered 
blindly  over  the  ground.  Then  a  warm  drop  fell  to  the  stone 
at  her  feet. 

During  his  recital  the  very  soul  in  Francesco  seemed  to  have 

217 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

withered  with  dread,  and  he  seemed  to  shrivel  up  bodily  and 
to  grow  feeble  and  old  and  wilted,  as  a  leaf  that  the  frost  has 
touched. 

"  The  memory  pains  you,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  bit  his  lips. 

"  Deem  you,  I  forget  when  I  am  silent?  But  it  is  not  the 
thing  itself  that  haunts  me !  It  is  the  fact  that  I  have  lost  the 
power  over  myself  —  " 

"  You  have  suffered  —  " 

"  It  is  the  fact  that  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  courage,  — 
to  the  point  where  I  find  myself  a  coward!  " 

"  Surely  there  is  a  limit  to  what  one  may  bear  —  " 

"  And  he  who  has  once  reached  that  limit  never  knows  when 
he  may  reach  it  again !  " 

He  looked  up  with  a  sudden  piteous  catching  of  the 
breath. 

"  What  will  you  do?  "  she  spoke  after  a  pause. 

He  held  her  hands  in  a  close,  passionate  clasp.  A  silence 
that  seemed  to  have  no  end  had  fallen  about  them. 

"  My  allotted  task,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  more  dead 
than  alive. 

"  No,  —  no,  —  no  —  !  "  she  started  up  suddenly.  "  Cannot 
you  see,  —  will  you  never  understand  —  oh !  the  bitterness, 
the  misery  of  it  all !  " 

She  clung  to  him  with  all  her  might. 

"  Come  away  with  me !  What  have  you  to  do  with  this  dead 
world  of  priests  and  monks !  They  are  full  of  the  dust  of  by 
gone  ages !  Come  out  of  this  plague-ridden  Church,  —  come 
with  me  into  the  sunlight !  I  love  you  —  I  have  always  loved 
you,  —  always  —  " 

She  bent  blindly  towards  him. 

"  Take  me  away  from  here,  —  Francesco,  —  take  me  away 
from  here!  Since  I  came  here  my  feet  seem  to  have  grown 
heavy  with  this  lotus-laden  air.  At  times  it  sweeps  over  me 

218 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

like  desperation,  —  I  lose  the  faculty  of  thinking,  I  lose  the 
power  over  myself!  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  at  Astura!  "  he  said  tentatively,  the 
affair  in  the  Red  Tower  flashing  through  his  consciousness. 

She  gave  a  quick  start. 

"  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  stand  alone !  I  have  lived  in  hell  ever 
since  I  set  foot  in  Astura.  Almost  have  I  lost  the  courage  to 
look  life  in  the  face.  How  I  have  wanted  you !  "  she  continued, 
with  a  wan,  wistful  smile.  "  Ever  I  see  you  standing  against 
the  background  of  a  great  silence,  a  silence  that  engulfs,  that 
maddens,  that  kills!  And  you  will  go  from  me,  leave  me  a 
prey  to  this  gray,  suffocating  loneliness,  which  hovers  as  a 
pall  over  my  soul!  I  am  nothing  to  Raniero!  He  seeks  his 
pleasures  elsewhere !  The  lure  of  the  body  drove  him  to  me, 
—  it  has  vanished,  —  thank  God  even  for  that !  I  should  die 
in  his  embrace.  He  knows  that  I  loathe  him,  that  my  soul 
spurns  him!  And  he  knows  that  I  love  you!  Yet,  though  he 
has  forfeited  every  right,  human  and  divine,  he  grudges  my 
love  to  another.  For  days  and  days  he  left  me  alone  within 
the  gray  walls  of  Astura,  until  in  a  fit  of  desperation  I  left  one 
night,  and  came  here,  to  forget.  His  insults  began  in  Rome. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  bring  his  mistress  to  the  Frangipani 
palace.  I  have  heard  it  whispered  there  is  a  curse  on  Astura. 
'  Astura  —  mala  terra,  —  maledetta! '  A  beggar  uttered  these 
words,  whom  Raniero  struck  for  obstructing  his  path,  on  the 
day  when  we  arrived !  " 

A  sudden  blood-red  cloud  seemed  to  come  before  Fran 
cesco's  eyes.  With  a  voice  bare  of  intonation,  he  recited  his 
own  adventure  in  the  Red  Tower,  voicing  his  suspicions  and 
fears. 

Ilaria  betrayed  no  surprise. 

"  He  has  never  forgiven  Fonte  Gaia,"  she  said,  with  droop 
ing  head.  "  And  yet  he  was  untrue  to  me  even  then !  From 
that  hour  matters  began  to  grow  worse.  Recklessly  he  cast 

219 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

the  last  semblance  of  decorum  to  the  winds.  When  I  protested 
against  living  under  the  same  roof  with  his  mistress,  he  smi 
lingly  brought  me  to  Astura,  leaving  me,  as  he  said,  in  undis 
turbed  possession.  My  youth  destroyed,  my  soul  poisoned, 
I  accepted  my  fate!  I  am  the  lady  of  the  Frangipani!  Sold, 
and  bought,  and  paid  for !  " 

Ilaria  had  made  mere  truth  of  the  matter,  neither  justifying 
nor  embellishing.  Her  clear,  bleak  words  were  the  more 
pathetic  for  their  very  simpleness. 

With  a  great  cry,  he  took  her  hi  his  arms,  kissed  her  dusky 
tresses,  kissed  her  flower-soft  face.  The  dimmed  sunlight, 
falling  in  upon  them,  enveloped  them  as  with  a  halo. 

"  And  you  are  happy  here?  "  he  spoke  at  last. 

She  gave  a  shrug. 

"  Here  as  elsewhere  it  is  a  phantom  scene,"  she  said,  with 
her  wan  smile.  "  But  if  the  fellowship  of  phantoms  be  or 
dained,  it  is  well  that  they  be  like  those  of  Naples,  radiant." 

"  Am  I  too,  then,  a  phantom  like  the  rest?  " 

Like  an  echo  a  voice  said : 

"  A  phantom  —  like  the  rest." 

"  And  is  he  —  a  phantom  too?  " 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

"  Raniero  —  " 

"  That  other  —  " 

Her  face  was  very  pale. 

"  Why  do  you  dwell  on  him?  " 

"  Are  you  not  Queen  of  Phantoms,  —  Proserpina,  —  Lady 
of  Shadows,  you  —  as  in  the  masque  at  AvelHno?  " 

She  shivered  in  his  arms.  He  pressed  her  more  closely  to 
his  heart. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago !  " 

"  And  then  as  now  you  moved  in  a  masque,  hi  which  I  have 
no  part." 

A  long  silence  enfolded  them.    She  nestled  close  to  him. 

220 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

"  I  am  tired,  —  very  tired,"  she  crooned,  as  a  child  about 
to  fall  asleep.  "  Francesco,  help  me  to  forget  the  years !  I  am 
afraid!" 

"  Afraid?  " 

"  Of  myself !  Sometimes  I  dare  not  be  alone  at  night!  No, 
—  no,  —  it  is  not  that !  The  inner  darkness !  There  is  no 
weeping  there,  —  only  silence,  —  silence,  —  and  the  gather 
ing  gloom !  " 

She  held  his  hands  in  her  own. 

"  But  for  this,"  she  cried  with  passionate  pressure,  "  I 
should  long  have  cursed  God  and  died  —  " 

Her  voice  died  away  in  the  empty  stillness  without  response. 

"  It  is  peace  I  crave,"  she  said  wearily,  "  a  peace,  such  as 
broods  over  a  sunset  world !  " 

"  The  peace  of  a  dying  day!  "  he  replied.  "  The  peace  I 
seek  is  of  a  day  that  stoops  not  to  evening." 

"  And  this  peace,  —  have  you  found  it?  " 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  gravely  on  his  own. 

"  I  am  as  one  who  gropes  in  twilight  by  a  path  half  seen, 
towards  a  goal  he  does  not  know.  Not  for  me  the  peace  of 
the  goal !  But  there  is  peace  also  of  the  quest :  a  peace  I  would 
not  forego !  " 

They  had  arisen  and  walked  for  a  time  in  silence,  seeking 
the  remoter  regions  of  the  garden.  The  softened  siesta  lights 
gave  to  the  distant  hills  an  aspect  of  pearl  and  jasper. 

It  was  drawing  towards  sunset;  red  banners  streaked  the 
amethyst  of  the  western  sky. 

A  saffron  mist  enveloped  the  curves  of  Vesuvius,  shot  with 
gold  and  crimson,  merging  hi  dusky  purple.  In  the  plains  the 
fertile  fields  reclaimed  round  the  base  of  Castiglione  gleamed 
russet  with  vines,  gray  with  olives.  Beyond  the  grim  walls 
of  distant  Astura  stretched  the  chalk-lands  of  Torre  del  Greco. 

As  they  walked  side  by  side,  Francesco  felt  the  rhythmic 
life  in  Ilaria's  body.  The  wan,  appealing  face  was  close  to 

221 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

his.  An  instant,  and  the  passion  of  the  sky  leaped  into  it. 
Theirs  was  the  calm  of  a  still  pool,  which  hovers  till  the  wind 
breaks  it  into  the  myriad  agitations  of  lif e.  He  drew  her  towards 
him;  her  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  as  if  there  she  had 
found  a  home. 

The  evening  star  shone  out  in  the  fading  sky. 

The  dusk  was  travelling  towards  the  night. 

Creation  shivered  towards  a  deeper  dream. 

The  summer  moon  had  risen,  shedding  its  magic  light  over 
the  Gulf  of  Naples. 

The  very  soul  of  Francesco  was  thrilled  by  the  harmony 
around  him;  the  harmony  in  the  moon's  golden  trail,  which 
fell  upon  the  waters,  a  blazing  path,  reaching  from  Posilippo 
to  the  rim  of  the  horizon,  harmony  in  the  soft  murmur  of  the 
sea,  and  the  light  breeze  which  carried,  together  with  the 
salt  freshness  of  the  sea-air,  sweet  perfumes  from  the  shores 
of  Sorento  with  their  lemon  and  orange  groves ;  harmony  in 
the  silvery  curves  of  Vesuvius,  wrapped  in  luminous  mists, 
its  rugged  cone  emitting  a  white  smoke,  which  trailed  along 
the  upper  zones  of  the  air,  the  summit  of  the  mountain  flaring 
up  from  tune  to  time,  like  dying  embers  consecrated  to  the 
gods,  the  gods  who  had  died,  had  risen  again,  and  had  again 
expired. 

"  How  wondrous  lovely  the  night!  "  Francesco  at  last  turned 
to  his  silent  companion.  "  All  nature  seems  as  one  magic 
blossom  —  " 

"  My  blossom-season  is  past,"  she  answered  very  lightly. 

"  It  is  always  blossom-season  where  Proserpina  treads," 
said  Francesco,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  he  loved  so  well. 

"  You  look  almost  as  you  did,  when  we  were  both  happy." 

"  Is  it  so  long  ago?  Yes,  I  am  old,  ELaria.  Our  youth  seems 
far,  far  away !  " 

"Perhaps  I  too  am  not  old  enough,  to  be  young!  Our 
youth  —  "  she  paused  with  a  sob. 

222 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

Francesco  gazed  at  her  solicitously. 

"  Even  here?  " 

She  gave  him  a  wan,  small  smile. 

"Just  now,  one  might  forget!  " 

"  It  is  a  great  art,  to  forget,"  said  Francesco  tenderly.  "  You 
need  it,  Ilaria!  What  sufferings  have  been  yours!  " 

She  returned  his  look. 

He  understood. 

Ilaria  saw  the  pain  written  on  his  brow,  as  he  looked  at 
her  with  tenderness  undisguised.  She  felt  his  spirit  lying 
openly  before  her,  as  when  they  were  both  at  the  Court  of 
Avellino. 

"  From  the  look  on  your  forehead,"  she  said  softly,  "  you 
have  lived  long  in  your  cell,  since  last  we  met!  So  it  was 
meant,  I  think,  from  the  beginning!  " 

"  Assuredly  so  it  was  meant,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  am  very 
sorrowful,  for  I  see  not  what  was  meant  for  you !  " 

She  smiled  at  him,  as  if  to  reassure. 

"  If  Fate  has  guided  my  lif  e  ill,  not  yours  the  fault,"  she  said 
soothingly. 

In  her,  reserve  still  obtained,  yet  without  a  trace  of  her  late 
perplexing  defiance.  Asperity  had  given  way  to  a  great  gentle 
ness. 

"  Yet,"  Francesco  hesitated,  —  "I  am  tormented  by  one 
thought:  that  for  you  it  had  perchance  been  better,  if  —  " 

He  paused  with  drooping  eyes,  then  continued: 

"  I  could  not  profit  by  the  dispensation  of  Clement  and  re 
main  a  true  man.  But  you  —  "  and  again  he  paused. 

A  flash  of  her  old-time  perverseness  lighted  up  Ilaria's  sad 
eyes. 

"  Why  pause?  "  she  asked,  arching  her  brow.  "  You  mean 
that  which  is  moral  disaster  for  one,  might  be  salvation  for 
the  other?  And  that,  since  my  salvation  should  be  dearer  to 
you  than  your  own  —  " 

223 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

She  broke  out  into  quizzical  mirth.  But  she  was  swiftly 
grave  again,  though  tremulous. 

"  I,  too,  have  lost  myself  in  the  quest  of  happiness,"  she 
said,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  white  fingers.  "  Dread 
and  desire  have  beaten  me  hither  and  thither!  Great  waves 
have  tossed  me!  On  the  very  day  of  your  departure  from 
Avellino  the  Viceroy  asked  me  whom  I  would  wed!  Your 
name  leaped  to  my  lips.  I  told  him  I  would  have  none  other. 
Even  as  I  spoke  the  dread  seized  me!  I  said  to  myself:  this 
thing  can  never  be!  Then  you  went  away  —  and  I  was  en 
gulfed  in  darkness.  When  we  met  at  Rome  I  realized  what  I 
had  done !  Yet  in  the  very  effort  to  keep  you  far,  I  drew  you 
near !  Thus  Fate  had  willed  it !  When  we  met  at  Fonte  Gaia, 
I  knew  what  in  one  sunset  of  Avellino  I  had  merely  dreamed : 
my  love  for  you  lived  —  in  all  my  lif e  the  one  abiding  light. 
Longing  and  horror  racked  me!  She  is  cold,  and  foul,  and 
false,  that  White  Lady  —  and  the  gifts  she  offers  turn  to 
poison  in  the  grasp.  But  it  was  that  other  who  conquered,  - 
your  White  Lady,  —  not  mine !  She  was  ever  a  generous 
enemy,  and  hi  taking  you  from  me,  she  has  given  me  back  my 
love!" 

She  had  been  looking  at  him  with  wide  piteous  eyes,  even 
as  a  child  might  do.  On  a  sudden  she  covered  her  face, 
dropped  into  a  seat  among  the  bays  and  myrtles,  and  broke 
into  wild  weeping. 

The  strong  sense  of  bondage  came  back  with  a  fuller  force 
as  though  to  menace  her  with  the  fateful  realism  of  her  lot.  A 
hand  seemed  to  sweep  down  and  wave  her  back  with  a  mean 
ing  so  sinister  that  she  had  the  feeling  of  standing  on  the  brink 
of  a  mysterious  sea,  whose  waves  sang  to  her  a  song  of  peril, 
of  misery  and  desire  in  the  dim  green  twilight  of  some  coral 
dungeon.  The  lure  of  the  unknown  beat  upon  her  eyes,  while 
love  and  hate,  like  attendant  spirits,  beckoned  her  onward 
with  a  weird,  perpetual  clamor. 

224 


THE   LADY    OF   SHADOWS 

Francesco  tried  in  vain  to  soothe  her,  calling  her  by  all  the 
endearing  names  of  the  past,  and  pressing  her  closely  to  his 
heart. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  cried,  sobbing  convulsively. 
"  I  have  wished  no  one  ill!  Ever  have  I  desired  only  fairness 
and  love,  and  fullness  of  sweet  life.  And  the  beauty  I  seek 
is  befouled  by  my  seeking,  my  love  has  stained  my  beloved; 
and  when  I  clutch  at  life,  life  crumbles  within  my  grasp. 
Wherein  has  my  quest  been  wrong?  " 

"  Not  wrong,"  he  said  unsteadily  —  "  not  wrong,  —  I 
trust!" 

She  looked  at  him  bewildered. 

"  I,  too,  would  turn  from  that  agonizing  God  upon  the 
Cross  to  paths  where  roses  bloom,"  Francesco  replied,  heavy- 
hearted.  "  I  have  been  walking  amid  shadows,  and  I  have 
lost  the  way." 

She  caught  at  his  hand  and  drew  it  piteously  to  her  lips,  but 
made  no  attempt  to  retain  it. 

"  I  am  that  Proserpina  who  has  lost  the  spring,"  she  said, 
raising  her  haunting  eyes  to  his.  "  Yet  one  comfort  is  left 
me  still,  —  one  stay,  that  shall  not  fail !  " 

"  And  that?  " 

There  was  a  strange  expression  about  her  face,  but  she  was 
silent. 

A  shudder  seized  him  with  the  swift  suspicion  of  her  mean 
ing. 

"You  shall  not!"  he  cried  almost  roughly.  "You  shall 
not !  I,  too,  —  did  I  give  way  to  that  fierce  longing,  —  you 
shall  not  yield  to  that  crawling  weakness !  " 

But  Ilaria  interrupted  him. 

"  Oh !  my  dear,  I  meant  not  that!  "  she  said.  "  Of  weakness 
I  might  reck  little,  of  the  hurt  to  you  I  should  reck  much. 
There  is  that  hi  my  heart  for  you  which  shall  keep  me  safe 
henceforth  from  what  would  grieve  you  1 " 

225 


THE   HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  What  is  it  then?  "  he  asked  relieved.  "  The  comfort,  — 
the  stay,  —  of  which  you  spoke?  " 

She  smiled  through  her  tears;  the  old-time  smile. 

"  I  do  not  see  your  life,"  he  said  anxiously.  "  What  is  it,  — 
what  shall  it  be?  Till  that  be  known  to  me,  Ilaria,  I  shall  not 
know  rest  or  peace.  You  are  beautiful ,  —  too  beautiful  for 
this  licentious  court !  Here  you  cannot  remain  —  alone !  " 

"  I  fear  the  twilight,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder.  "  There 
is  but  one  goal  for  me,  and,  when  the  hour  comes,  you  shall 
lead  me  there.  Proserpina  will  turn  Lady  of  Shadows  in  very 
truth,  and  move  veiled  through  her  rose  garden." 

"  But  why  must  this  thing  be?  "  he  queried  with  a  choking 
sensation.  "  I,  too,  have  sinned  —  " 

"  Of  sin  I  know  nothing,"  said  Ilaria  mournfully,  "  I  appre 
hend  neither  the  word,  nor  the  thing ! " 

"  Then  why  this  last  extremity?  " 

"  Will  you  not  understand? "  she  interposed  petulantly. 
"  Your  presence  here  has  shown  me  once  for  all  that  I  may 
not  continue  to  walk  in  the  old  way ;  I  may  not  walk  in  yours, 
and  I  would  not  have  you  walk  in  mine !  You  wavered  towards 
it  of  late!  Once  upon  a  time  I  should  have  rejoiced;  now  my 
spirit  is  full  of  fear." 

She  crept  close  to  him  and  looked  up  at  him  with  tremulous 
lids. 

He  caught  her  to  him  with  all  the  old-time  love  in  his  eyes. 
All  fears,  all  misgivings,  all  doubts  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
were  utterly  blotted  out  in  their  embrace,  and  over  Ilaria's 
features  there  flitted  the  gleam  of  a  long  forgotten  happiness. 

Her  look  was  far  away.    Of  a  sudden  she  turned  to  Francesco. 

"  Will  you  remain  at  Naples?  " 

He  gave  a  shrug. 

"  Days  —  weeks  —  who  can  tell?  A  GhibelUne  victory 
may  turn  the  tide." 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  said,  her  face  very 

226 


THE    LADY    OF    SHADOWS 

close  to  his.  "I  have  long  wished  to  say  it:  beware  of  Ra- 
niero!  " 

"  I  have  done  him  no  wrong!  " 

She  made  a  gesture  as  one  throwing  up  a  libation. 

"Fonte  Gaia!" 

He  felt  her  breath  fanning  his  cheek. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  madness  he  threw  his  arms  about 
her,  and  kissed  her. 

Where  the  roads  branched  off  they  parted,  after  a  long  pas 
sionate  embrace.  Ilaria  returned  to  the  palace,  while  Fran 
cesco  bent  his  footsteps  towards  the  bay,  shimmering  in  the 
light  of  the  higher  risen  moon. 

He  heard  her  go  singing  through  the  garden,  a  soft  chant 
d'amour  that  would  have  gone  wondrously  to  flute  and  cithern. 
It  died  away  slowly  amid  the  trees  like  an  elf's  song  coming 
from  woodlands  in  the  moonlight. 

His  soul  was  sobbing  within  him.  He  felt  his  purpose,  his 
resolutions  waver.  The  crisis  of  his  life  had  come.  Alone 
with  Ilaria  at  Naples !  Raniero  away,  —  indulging  his  lusts ! 

He  had  feared  this  meeting,  feared  it  above  all  things  in 
heaven  or  earth! 

Again  they  were  abroad,  the  gods  of  yore.  They  rode  the 
wind;  they  laughed  in  the  far  reaches  of  the  sky;  they  whis 
pered  in  his  heart. 

To  love  her!    To  possess  her! 

The  thought  had  suddenly  leaped  into  his  brain,  taking  its 
first  clearly  defined  form,  recoiling  upon  him,  dazzling  his  eyes. 

For  this  he  had  lived ;  for  this  he  had  suffered ! 

And  now? 

A  deeper  question  came,  like  a  wind  in  a  fog;  a  fearsome 
thing.  Why  should  this  love  be  sin?  This  love,  —  the  one 
pure  emotion  in  all  his  life? 

In  the  spiritual  darkness  which  encompassed  Francesco, 
the  fire  of  his  old  love  for  Ilaria  had  leaped  high  upon  the  altar 

227 


THE   HILL    OF   VENUS 

of  his  sacrifice.  For  her  he  had  kept  himself  pure,  for  her  he 
had  starved  his  soul,  while  his  love  smouldered  in  the  dark 
chambers  of  his  heart. 

For  hours  Francesco  was  as  a  man  possessed,  moving  through 
them  drearily,  as  through  crowding  phantoms,  struggling  to 
suppress  an  imperious  craving  that  tormented  him  for  release. 

It  was  late  when  he  retraced  his  steps  towards  his  inn. 

Gigantic  cypresses  bordered  the  way,  ranged  like  dark 
torch-bearers  at  a  funeral.  Their  entwined  tips,  continually 
caught  by  the  wind  from  the  sea,  remained  bent  like  heads 
drooped  in  sorrow.  White  statues  of  gods  gleamed  spectre- 
like  in  the  dark  shades.  In  the  laurel  thickets  glow-worms 
flickered  like  funeral  tapers.  The  heavy  scent  of  the  magno 
lias  recalled  the  odor  of  balsam  used  for  anointing  the  dead. 
The  waters  of  the  fountain,  trickling  from  an  overhanging  rock, 
fell  into  the  sea,  drop  by  drop,  like  silent  tears,  as  though  a 
nymph  were  weeping  in  the  cave  above,  bewailing  her  sisters, 
some  dark  Elysium,  the  subterranean  groves  of  shadows,  the 
burial  grounds  of  dead  gods. 

But  even  sleep  brought  only  one  persistent  vision  to  Fran 
cesco  :  a  reach  of  laughing  waters,  now  turquoise,  now  sap 
phire,  now  upheaving  into  a  mighty  translucent  wave,  that 
curled  swiftly  towards  him,  and,  quivering  within,  the  face 
of  Ilaria,  upturned  to  his  own. 


228 


CHAPTER  III 


AN   INTERLUDE 

EANTIME,  the  atmosphere  of 
this  secular  court  was  not  dis 
tasteful  to  Francesco.  The  love 
of  poetry  and  the  arts  which 
had  made  Naples  in  the  twelfth 
century  the  literary  centre  of 
Europe,  still  lingered;  and  he 
found  pleasant  intercourse  on 
lines  along  which  he  had  long 
been  lonely. 

Of  Ilaria  he  saw  little.  She  carried  herself  with  a  strange, 
new  dignity  and  seemed  to  avoid  him  even  more  sedulously 
than  he  had  planned  to  avoid  her.  He  heard  her  spoken  of  as 
among  the  chief  beauties  of  the  court.  The  Regent,  it  was 
said,  had  shown  her  marks  of  especial  favor,  the  more  note 
worthy  as  the  Frangipani  were  on  the  side  of  the  empire, 
fighting  against  Clement  and  Charles  of  Anjou.  But  his  only 
opportunity  of  seeing  her  was  at  the  court  functions,  which  it 
was  his  duty  to  attend.  To  men  of  Francesco's  temperament 
the  absent  has  a  more  constraining  force  than  the  present; 
the  dream-Ilaria,  with  her  wavering  smile,  had  borne,  it  would 
seem,  more  intimate  relations  to  his  life  than  the  woman  he 
watched  from  afar.  But  his  restlessness  increased  with  the 
certainty  that  Ilaria  avoided  him ;  a  circumstance  their  meeting 
had  not  led  him  to  fear. 
Thus  a  week  dragged  on. 

The  African  wind,  which  carries  with  it  clouds  of  hot  sand 
from  the  depths  of  the  Sahara,  was  raging  in  the  upper  re- 

229 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

gions  of  the  air.  On  earth  there  was  still  absolute  calm.  The 
leaves  of  the  palm  and  the  branches  of  the  mimosa  hung 
motionless ;  the  sea  alone  was  agitated.  Huge,  formless  ridges 
swelled  up  here  and  there,  dashing  themselves  against  the 
shore.  The  west  was  shrouded  hi  dense  gloom,  and  the 
sun,  in  the  metallic,  cloudless  haze,  was  seen  dimly,  as  through 
a  smoked  opal. 

The  Castello  of  Astura  in  the  distant  plains  of  Torre  del 
Greco  shone  white  against  the  black  smoke  that  rose  from 
Vesuvius  as  from  some  mighty  furnace,  spreading  out  in  the 
shape  of  a  long  cloud  from  Castellamare  to  Posilippo.  For 
weeks  the  mountain  had  displayed  a  sinister  activity,  and  at 
night  the  red  fires  were  visible  far  away,  over  land  and  sea, 
like  the  glow  of  some  great  subterranean  furnace.  The 
peaceful  altar  of  the  gods  had  been  transformed  into  the  ter 
rible  torch  of  the  Eumenides. 

There  were  dire  forebodings  of  coming  disaster  in  the  air 
and  hi  the  winds.  At  Torre  del  Greco  penitential  processions 
made  the  rounds  of  the  sun-baked  streets,  with  lighted  candles, 
subdued  chanting  and  loud  sobbing.  In  Resina  and  Portici 
dull  terror  reigned.  And  the  glare  of  the  August  sun  had 
become  almost  insufferable,  as  it  fell  full  over  the  waters  to 
the  pencilled  line  of  the  southern  horizon,  where  a  long  circle 
divided  the  misty,  shimmering  dove-color  of  the  Tyrrhene 
Sea  from  the  hazy  skies. 

Then,  like  the  knell  of  doom,  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  battle 
of  Tagliacozzo  were  wafted  to  Naples.  Conradino's  army  had 
been  utterly  routed.  Charles  of  Anjou  was  the  victor  of  the 
day. 

The  fate  of  the  Swabian  youth  and  that  of  his  companions 
was  still  a  matter  of  surmise.  They  had  fled  from  the  battle 
field.  No  one  knew  the  direction  of  their  flight. 

And  for  days  Francesco  went  about  as  one  dazed.  The  Nea 
politans  laughed  his  exhortations  to  scorn,  and  seemed  to 

230 


AN    INTERLUDE 

invite  the  interdict  rather  than  to  submit  to  the  Vulture  of 
Provence. 

He  was  ruminating  over  the  situation,  wishing  for  some 
inspiration,  wishing  for  Ilaria,  and  noting  idly  how  the  soft 
siesta  lights  played  upon  the  sea,  when  Francesco  perceived 
a  little  pleasure  barque  skirting  the  coast,  and  heading  ap 
parently  for  his  favorite  spot,  —  where  he  had  met  Ilaria  on 
coming  to  Naples.  As  the  breeze  impelled  it  nearer,  music 
floated  over  the  waters.  A  few  moments,  and  he  descried 
within  the  boat  three  of  the  most  charming  of  the  younger 
women  of  the  court,  with  their  attendant  cavaliers.  He  eyed 
the  little  boat  longingly,  as  it  approached  like  some  swift  sprite 
of  the  sea.  It  was  at  hand  now,  moored  to  the  tiny  wharf,  and 
one  of  the  women  called  out  gaily: 

"  Messer  Eremito,  we  have  found  your  cell!  " 

"  And  like  many  hermits,"  laughed  Stefano  Maconi,  "  he 
appears  to  welcome  the  intrusion." 

"  To  be  welcomed  by  Messer  Francesco,"  suggested  an 
other,  "  we  should  be  on  the  barque  which  Charon  is  rowing 
across  the  Styx." 

Francesco  found  his  tongue  at  last. 

"  Beauty  should  always  have  precedence  over  departed 
souls,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "  Is  it  your  pleasure  to  land  and 
to  enliven  this  solitude?  " 

"No,  but  to  lure  you  out  upon  the  waters,"  said  the  woman 
who  had  spoken. 

Francesco,  carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  the  moment,  ran 
down  the  marble  steps  of  the  terrace  and  leaped  lightly  into 
the  boat. 

"  Violetta  made  a  wager  that  you  would  not  come,  —  Pe- 
tronella  that  you  would,"  said  a  third.  "  As  for  myself  —  I 
was  neutral.  But  my  fears  were  with  Violetta." 

As  the  sun  sank  lower,  the  wind  dropped,  and  the  men  bent 
singing  to  their  oars. 

231 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

"  We  were  playing  a  game,  Messere,"  said  the  Countess 
Violetta.  "  We  are  trying  to  decide  who  is  the  fairest  lady 
of  this  court,  exclusive,  of  course,  —  of  us  three.  If  we 
can  agree,  we  shall  plan  a  surprise  for  that  most  lovely 
one!" 

"  My  vote,"  said  Messer  Romano  Vivaldi,  "  is  for  Madonna 
Ghisola.  The  dusk  of  her  hair  is  as  soft  as  that  of  the  thickest 
smoke  of  Vesuvius,  and,  as  in  the  smoke,  there  are  red  re 
flections  in  it ! " 

"  Beware  of  the  volcano,"  laughed  Petronella.  "  A  merry 
beauty  for  me,"  she  improvised,  speaking  half  verse,  half 
prose  like  the  others.  "  Rose-white  as  asphodel  blossom, 
and  fragrant  as  the  cyclamen  of  the  hills.  What  say  you  to 
the  Contessa  Leonora?  Who  can  hear  her  laugh  without 
remembering  what  some  one  has  said:  'Laughter  is  the 
radiance  of  the  soul?  '  " 

"  To  my  mind,"  said  one  of  the  cavaliers,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  "  the  Countess  Ilaria  Frangipani  is  the  fairest  woman 
of  the  court." 

The  eyes  of  Stefano  Maconi  flashed  emphatic  assent. 

"  She  is  too  sad,"  objected  Violetta,  who  was  the  youngest 
of  the  party. 

"  So  was  the  sea  beneath  the  clouds  of  dawn,"  said  the 
cavalier.  "  It  sighed  of  sorrows  without  end.  The  clouds 
melted,  and  the  gray  waters  brightened  to  turquoise,  but 
whether  under  clouds  or  sun,  the  sea  is  a  mystery." 

"  She  has  the  grace  of  the  swaying  wave,"  assented  Pe 
tronella. 

"  And  its  light  in  her  eyes,"  added  Camilla. 

"  The  lady  is  fair,"  acknowledged  Messer  Romano,  "  but 
too  unapproachable  for  me !  " 

Startled,  Francesco  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  a  complacent 
smile  flit  across  the  countenance  of  Stefano  Maconi. 

"  What  thinks  Messer  Francesco  of  her  beauty?  "  asked 

232 


AN    INTERLUDE 

Violetta.  "  I  believe  that  each  new  age  sees  men  and  women 
fairer  than  the  last." 

"  I  think,  that  cannot  be,"  said  the  Countess  Petronella, 
naively.  "  Was  never  woman  so  fair  as  Madama  Elena  of 
Troy,  and  she  lived  before  the  coming  of  our  Saviour." 

"  I  agree  with  Madonna  Violetta,"  said  Francesco  dreamily. 
"  Gazing  at  Madonna  Ilaria  I  think  there  is  come  into  the 
world  something  strange  and  new,  revealed  to  us  to  our  joy 
and  our  undoing! " 

The  sun  had  set.    The  boatmen  were  singing  together. 

"  Non  senti  mai  Achille, 
Per  Pulisena  bella, 
Le  cocenti  faville 
Quant'  io  senti  per  quella. 

"  Udendo  sua  favella 
Angelica  e  venozza, 
Parlar  si  amorosa 
In  su  la  fresca  erbetta." 

"  The  beauty  of  this  coast,"  said  Francesco,  speaking  low, 
"  is  as  the  beauty  of  woman.  It  transcends  all  I  have  imagined, 
yet  is  it  ever  alien.  I  have  felt  it  in  Rome,  but  not  so  strongly. 
In  Umbria,  in  Tuscany  all  is  more  pure,  more  distant,  yet 
more  clear.  The  eye  is  drawn  afar  to  where  earth  meets  sky; 
here  it  seeks  to  draw  all  to  itself.  It  is  a  beauty  unhallowed: 
The  triumph  of  the  Pagan  World !  " 

"  Is  there  a  city  in  Italy  more  Catholic  than  Naples?  "  pro 
tested  Violetta,  while  the  others  joined  in  a  chorus  of  protes 
tation. 

"  Where  in  Europe  shall  you  find  more  priests?  "  asked 
Stefano  Maconi,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Where  shall  you 
find  more  churches?  " 

233 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Francesco  had  been  musing.  Now  the  spirit  of  contradic 
tion  was  upon  him. 

"  Even  hi  your  churches,"  he  said  suddenly,  turning  to 
Camilla,  "  I  find  something  strange.  They  are  sumptuous 
indeed ;  yet  there  steals  over  me  a  fearsome  f eeling,  as  if  the 
worship  were  given  not  to  the  Deity  that  is,  but  to  deities  long 
dead,  —  or  worse  than  dead !  " 

A  slight  shudder  ran  over  one  or  two  of  the  hearers;  the 
boatmen  were  singing  softly. 

The  stars  were  out,  the  boat  was  nearing  the  shore.  And 
still  the  boatmen  were  singing,  as  the  moon  shed  her  spec 
tral  light  over  the  crooning,  murmuring  waves. 

"  We  are  all  agreed,  are  we  not,  that  the  Countess  Ilaria 
Frangipani  is  the  fairest?  "  asked  Camilla,  as  they  prepared 
to  land. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Stefano  Maconi,  "  to  be  responsible  for 
the  proposed  surprise.  It  shall,  with  your  pleasure,  take  the 
form  of  a  Festa  in  the  groves  of  Circe !  " 

"  It  will  be  fair  weather  to-morrow!  "  said  Violetta.  "  We 
shall  all  be  there ! " 

After  they  had  departed  Francesco  passed  swiftly  to  and 
fro  along  the  terrace. 

Strange  feelings  were  at  work  within  him.  Love,  hatred, 
jealousy  were  contending  for  the  mastery.  He  hated  the  oily 
cavalier  with  the  smooth,  pleasant  temper;  he  hated  the  man 
who  dared  aspire  to  Ilaria's  love.  To  Raniero  he  gave  not 
even  a  thought.  He  had  never  felt  jealous  of  the  Frangipani. 
But  now  Ilaria's  name  was  on  the  wind!  The  sea  shouted  it; 
the  flowers  exhaled  it.  It  floated  on  the  night-air;  the  moon 
and  the  stars  seemed  to  whisper  it.  Ilaria!  Ilaria!  He  was 
once  more  abandoned  to  the  older  gods ! 

"  I  shall  not  be  there !  "  he  murmured  to  himself,  thinking 
of  the  Festa.  Yet,  when  the  morning  came,  he  was  among  the 
first  to  arrive. 

234 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   HILL    OF   VENUS 

OME  by  land,  and  some  by  sea, 
the  revellers  took  their  morning 
way  along  the  coast  towards  the 
ruins  of  ancient  Baiae.  Fran 
cesco  was  on  horseback,  a  friend 
having  furnished  him  with  an 
excellent  mount.  As  he  can 
tered  on,  the  road  continually 
revealed  the  far-sparkling  sea. 
A  flock  of  brilliant  butterflies 
dipped  and  poised  on  the  waters,  —  pleasure  boats  bound  for 
the  tryst.  Ilaria !  Ilaria !  She  and  he  were  moving  by  differ 
ent  ways  to  the  same  goal. 

Steeds  proved  swifter  than  sails  that  morning;  the  horse 
men  arrived  half  an  hour  before  the  boats.  The  place  was 
a  lonely  wonder.  The  sloping  hillsides,  broken  by  the  green 
hollows  of  an  ancient  amphitheatre,  rose  gently  from  the  beach. 
From  the  turf,  strewn  with  wild  hyacinth,  cyclamen,  Star  of 
Bethlehem  and  tiny  fleurs-de-lys,  great  columns,  half  em 
bedded  in  the  ground,  raised  ivy-mantled  shafts,  now  broken, 
now  crowned  with  Corinthian  capitals,  which  peered  through 
trailing  vines.  Choice  marbles,  their  rose  or  white  mellowed 
to  gold,  lay  scattered  here  and  there,  the  surfaces,  fluted  or 
bevelled,  still  gleaming  with  the  polish  of  by-gone  centuries. 
Below  and  above  the  amphitheatre  mysterious  masonry  broke 
the  climbing  slope.  The  ruins  extended  to  the  very  verge  of 
the  sea. 

Francesco  ran  down  the  bank  as  the  first  boat  drew  near. 

235 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

Under  an  awning  of  silk,  shot  with  green  and  blue  and  gold, 
sat  Ilaria,  the  Countess  Violetta  and  Stefano  Maconi.  Vio- 
letta  was  rippling  with  joyous  laughter.  Ilaria  smiled  and  the 
beauty  of  the  day  found  its  meaning.  She  had  thrown  aside 
the  misty  veil,  with  which  she  was  wont  to  envelop  herself. 
Her  gown,  or  so  Francesco  thought,  was  the  same  which 
Proserpina  had  worn,  in  the  "  Triumph  of  Amor."  At  least, 
the  same  strange  broideries  shone  among  its  folds. 

She  stepped  lightly  ashore.  Her  fingers  rested  on  Fran 
cesco's  hand  and  her  eyes  accepted  his  adoring  look  with  a 
strange  inscrutable  expression. 

"  We  have  been  sailing  over  marvels,"  cried  Violetta  wide- 
eyed.  "  Below  the  clear  green  waves  rise  palaces !  We  saw 
great  white  columns  and  a  pavement  of  mosaics.  Did  we 
not,  Madonna  Ilaria?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ilaria,  dreamily.  "  Had  they  not  quivered  in 
the  light,  we  could  have  traced  the  pattern !  " 

"  The  palaces  of  the  sea  ladies,"  Violetta  exclaimed  glee 
fully.  "  I  thought  I  saw  one,  but  she  turned  out  to  be  a  fish!  " 

"  The  home  of  strange  beings,  at  any  rate,"  mused  Ilaria, 
—  "  of  flowers  that  are  alive !  Did  you  see  that  long  blue 
ribbon  sway  and  beckon  to  us?  " 

liana's  gravity  and  pallor  seemed  to  have  vanished  with 
the  mists  of  morning.  She  was  flushed  and  gay,  —  almost 
too  gay,  Francesco  thought.  A  startled  quietude,  as  of  ore 
expectant,  was  upon  her. 

"  I  have  bidden  you  to  a  land  of  enchantment,"  laughed 
Stefano  Maconi  as  they  climbed  upwards.  "  We  are  still 
within  the  power  of  the  sea,  as  you  perceive,"  he  added,  when 
the  company  paused  by  the  half-buried  columns  below  the 
amphitheatre. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Francesco,  pausing  by  a  half-buried  shaft. 
"  The  stone  is  fretted  by  the  waves.  See  the  clustered  bar 
nacles  and  tiny  shells  clinging  half-way  up !  " 

236 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

A  party  of  cavaliers  and  their  ladies  met  them  on  this  spot. 

As  they  exchanged  greetings,  all  studied  the  strange  sight. 

"  Probably,"  reflected  a  young  page  of  the  court,  "  it  was 
the  doing  of  Messer  Vergilio." 

"  He  had  great  power  hereabout,"  asserted  Andrea  Ravi- 
gnano,  "  and  was  a  mighty  clerk  of  necromancy.  Perhaps  it 
was  he  who  built  all  these  marvels!  " 

"  It  was  the  old  Roman  folk  that  built  them,  ages  ago,"  said 
another.  "  A  city  rose  here  once,  a  marvel  indeed,  as  these 
ruins  tell.  For  their  pleasure  men  built  it,  and  here  they  lived 
and  throve.  And  evil  livers  were  they  all,  and  slaves  to  the 
foul  fiends,  their  gods!" 

"  But  how  did  the  city  sink  into  the  sea?  "  asked  Violetta. 

"  That  was  the  work  of  Messer  Saint  Paul,"  replied  the 
other.  "  He  landed  here  and  preached  the  Cross  of  our 
Saviour,  and  when  men  would  not  heed  but  spat  upon  the  cross 
and  defied  it,  he  laid  the  land  under  a  curse,  and  it  sank  to 
the  depths  of  the  sea !  " 

"  And  when  the  waves  had  done  their  work,"  —  it  was 
Ilaria,  speaking  dreamily,  "  they  flowed  back,  and  the  ruins 
rested  on  a  gentle  hill.  But  forever  and  ever  do  they  remem 
ber  the  sea!  " 

She  sighed  a  little. 

"  The  slope  on  which  we  sit  is  hollow  within,"  ventured  the 
youthful  page.  "  Behind  us  is  many  a  love-grotto,  tunnelled 
deep  and  far.  The  country  folk,  when  they  run  the  harrow, 
find  great  walls.  And  so  none  dare  come  here  of  nights: 
strange  things  are  seen!" 

"  Perhaps  the  waters  will  rise  again  some  day  and  swallow 
Naples  and  the  court,  and  we  shall  turn  into  sea-folk  all," 
Ilaria  said,  laughing  a  little  wildly.  "  Subjects  of  Lady  Venus 
we  should  be.  She  was  Queen  of  the  Sea,  I've  heard !  " 

"  Though  Terce  is  hardly  passed,  such  talk  is  not  wise," 
said  some  one. 

237 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

And  two  or  three  crossed  themselves. 

But  as  the  light  words  drifted  on,  dim  vistas  of  thought,  at 
the  end  of  which  immemorial  things  were  gleaming,  had  opened 
to  Francesco. 

Violetta  had  been  deftly  weaving  a  green  garland  of  ivy. 

"  Dream  no  more,  fairest,"  she  turned  smiling  to  Ilaria. 
"  Tell  me  rather  what  flowers  to  weave  into  your  chaplet. 
Of  no  strange  blooms  of  the  sea  shall  it  be  wrought,  but,  at 
your  will,  of  roses  or  the  small  fior-da-lisa !  " 

"  He  who,  as  I,  loves  best  the  sea,  loves  best  the  rose," 
replied  Ilaria  smiling.  "  While  he  who  climbs  the  height  adores 
the  lily!" 

She  glanced,  as  she  spoke  at  Francesco,  whose  gaze  had 
never  for  a  moment  abandoned  her.  Never  had  she  seemed 
so  fair  to  him,  so  utterly  adorable,  stirring  in  his  soul  the  slum 
bering  fires  of  desire. 

Violetta  quickly  finished  her  wreath  of  eglantine,  and  dropped 
it  lightly  on  liana's  brow. 

"  Why  fear  we  ghosts  in  this  radiant  air?  "  laughed  she. 

"  Perhaps  we  are  the  ghosts,  —  ghosts  of  our  former  selves," 
suggested  Ilaria. 

"  No  phantom  heart  beats  in  my  bosom,"  laughed  Stefano 
Maconi. 

And  a  look  of  meaning,  or  so  Francesco  felt,  passed  between 
them. 

"  Fair  phantom,  let  us  tread  a  measure!  "  pleaded  Violetta. 
"  What  was  this  green  level  made  for,  if  not  for  the  beating 
of  gentle  feet?  " 

"  And  when  the  measure  is  over,"  said  Francesco  in  an 
undertone,  as  they  rose,  "  perhaps  Madonna  Ilaria  will  gra 
ciously  vouchsafe  me  a  few  moments?  " 

She  nodded  assent;  but  he  could  see  her  eyelids  quiver, 
and  her  breath  came  fast.  The  measure  finished,  Stefano 
Maconi  at  once  proposed  a  new  diversion,  from  which  neither 

238 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

could  escape,  and  time  wore  on,  while  the  light  grew  more 
intense  and  the  sky  burned  a  deeper  blue.  Ill  at  ease,  Fran 
cesco  withdrew  from  the  pastimes  at  last  and  climbed  the  hill 
behind  the  amphitheatre.  He  was  displeased  and  nervous. 
Ilaria,  he  was  sure,  shrank  from  Stefano  Maconi;  yet  was 
there  not  some  secret  bond  between  them? 

Would  Ilaria  come  to  him?  He  trembled,  as  in  Avellino 
of  old,  and  his  heart  beat  faster  at  the  thought. 

The  hill  was  richly  draped  in  ferns  and  swaying  vines. 
Idly  he  pushed  aside  a  mass  of  ivy :  a  passage  opened  behind, 
deep-vaulted,  paved  with  broken  fragments  of  mosaic.  Stalac 
tites  dripped  from  the  roof,  through  the  verdure  of  thick 
maiden-hair  fern.  The  gloom  looked  grateful.  Francesco 
stepped  within  and,  looking  out  on  the  blue  day  from  the 
waving  green  frame-work,  saw  Ilaria  and  Stefano  Maconi 
approaching,  engaged  in  eager  talk.  She  was  flushed  and  bore 
herself  haughtily. 

Francesco  stepped  quietly  out  into  the  light,  unnoticed  by 
Ilaria's  companion.  Ilaria  evidently  saw  him  at  once.  She 
paused  and  dismissed  the  other,  regardless  of  his  somewhat 
insistent  protests.  With  half-ironic  salutation  she  turned 
down  the  hill.  Whether  or  no  Stefano  had  caught  sight  of 
Francesco,  as  he  went,  was  difficult  to  say. 

Ilaria  came  towards  the  grotto,  trailing  her  draperies,  her 
brow  troubled  and  sad  beneath  the  gay  chaplet. 

"  The  sun  is  hot,  —  one  craves  shelter,"  she  said  lightly, 
yet  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Francesco,  without  replying,  lifted  the  ivy  curtain  and  with 
a  mute  gesture  invited  her  to  enter. 

They  stood  in  the  dusky  gloom,  speechless,  hidden  from 
each  other,  till  their  gaze  became  accustomed  to  the 
shade. 

He  was  helplessly  unable  to  break  the  silence.  Fear,  joy, 
desire,  doubt  were  tossing  him.  The  breath  came  fast. 

239 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

She  raised  her  arms  and  caught  her  white  throat. 

"How  cool  it  is,  how  sweet!"  she  said.  "At  Avellino," 
and  she  glanced  at  him  hah*  shyly,  "  you  would  never  take  me 
to  your  grotto! " 

"  Ah!  But  this  grotto,"  he  tried  to  speak  as  lightly  as  she, 
"we  have  found  together!" 

"Together!"  she  reflected,  looking  away  from  him.  "It 
is  a  word  we  have  not  often  had  occasion  to  use,  —  you 
and  I." 

"  Why  might  we  not  in  the  days  to  come?  " 

The  words  were  on  his  lips ;  he  held  them  back. 

Ilaria  waited,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  side,  her  look  full  of 
mingled  tenderness  and  dread. 

As  he  kept  silence,  she  sighed,  almost,  it  would  seem,  with 
relief. 

"  I  wish  to  explore  the  cave,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  Come 
with  me,  If  you  like !  " 

And  with  quick  steps  she  started  into  the  darkness. 

"Take  care!  Take  care,  Lariella!"  cried  Francesco,  un 
consciously  using  the  familiar  diminutive,  forgotten  so  long 
ago. 

She  took  no  heed  and  he  hurried  after  her,  terror-stricken, 
he  knew  not  why.  She  kept  in  advance,  moving  swiftly  and 
lightly  over  the  dark  uneven  ground.  For  a  short  distance  the 
dusk  deepened,  then  a  sudden  light,  shining  from  a  crack  in 
the  vaulting,  revealed  in  startling  contrast  a  great  blackness 
by  the  side  of  which  there  gleamed  something  weird,  ghost 
like. 

Ilaria  screamed  and  stumbled.  The  passage,  widening  be 
neath  her  feet,  broke  downwards  into  a  pool  of  the  waters  of 
Styx.  A  lost  stair  had  betrayed  her. 

Francesco,  speeding  forward,  caught  her  garments,  drew 
her  back.  She  staggered  and  yielded  to  his  arms.  They  leaned 
together  against  the  wall  of  the  grotto.  The  earth  had  fallen 

240 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

away  a  little  at  the  shock,  revealing  in  the  uncertain  light  the 
white  figure  of  a  woman. 

They  both  stared  at  it,  holding  their  breath. 

The  image  stood  embedded  in  the  rocky  cavity,  whither 
some  force  had  in  past  ages  carried  her  from  her  old  position, 
for  she  had  evidently  presided  over  the  Piscina,  or  the  bath 
of  some  rich  Roman,  who  rejoiced  in  her  Greek  fairness. 
The  face  was  free,  but  soil  and  mould  had  given  it  a  half- 
sinister  expression.  The  limbs,  so  far  as  visible,  —  and  the 
earth  in  falling  away  had  left  one  white  side  of  the  body  en 
tirely  bare,  —  were  perfect. 

Ilaria  struggled  to  free  herself  from  Francesco's  embrace 
and  sank,  half  fainting,  at  the  statue's  base. 

"  The  peril  is  over,"  said  Francesco,  and  echoes  filled  the 
whole  cavern  with  murmuring.  "  Dearest,  be  not  afraid ! 
Look  at  me !  " 

As  her  head  drooped,  he  knelt  beside  her,  half  distraught, 
and  rubbed  her  wrists  and  forehead  with  water  from  the  pool. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him,  as  a  child  might. 

"  Fonte  Gaia!"  she  whispered. 

The  words  had  been  in  his  own  mind. 

Lifting  her  hand,  she  touched  and  stroked  the  marble,  and 
the  awe  grew  in  her  eyes. 

"  Feel!  "  she  said.  "  This  is  not  marble!  It  is  very  flesh, 
though  turned  to  stone !  " 

And  she  shuddered. 

"  Only  a  statue,  dearest !  "  he  answered  soothingly.  "  Around 
Naples,  they  say,  the  earth  is  full  of  such !  " 

"  It  is  the  White  Lady !  " 

She  had  risen  now  and  regained  her  self-control,  and  she 
spoke  with  unwonted  dignity  and  calm. 

"  It  is  the  White  Lady,"  she  repeated,  "  but  you  know, 
you  have  never  consented  to  her  spells.  She  rules  here  in  the 
dusk!  How  you  tremble!  There  is  no  need!  Sunlight  for 

241 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

you  is  but  a  few  paces  away!  See,  I  will  go  with  you  to  the 
entrance  of  the  grotto !  " 

In  truth  a  strange  tremor  had  seized  him.  He  stood  as  if 
unable  to  leave  the  spot.  She  was  looking  on  his  face  with 
anxious  eyes. 

"  Doubtless,"  he  said  at  last,  and  despised  himself  as  he 
spoke,  "  you  would  prefer  other  company  than  mine  in  the 
presence  of  your  White  Lady!" 

She  raised  her  white  hands  to  her  throat  again,  and  laughed, 
a  laugh  which  the  vaults  re-echoed  as  a  sob. 

"  Forgive,  —  forgive!  I  am  cruel!  "  cried  Francesco.  "  I 
know  not  what  I  say !  " 

"  You  are  overheated,"  she  said.  "  Bathe  your  brows,  as 
you  have  bathed  mine.  It  is  true,  I  did  not  find  the  touch  so 
cooling." 

"  The  waters  of  Lethe,"  said  Francesco  very  slowly.  "  Shall 
I  bathe  my  brows  in  them  indeed?  Already,  simply  standing 
by  them,  I  think  I  have  forgotten  many  things.  I  have  a  better 
thought.  Will  you  drink  of  them  with  me,  Ilaria?  It  would 
not  be  the  first  time  we  have  tasted  of  the  same  cup  in  the 
presence  of  Venus !  " 

Was  he  mistaken?  Or,  in  the  glimmering  light,  did  he  see 
a  shadow  passing  over  the  flower-soft  face? 

She  did  not  reply,  but  softly  stroked  his  hair. 

Her  touch  burned,  electrified  him.  For  a  moment  he  sub 
mitted  to  the  sensation,  then,  as  her  soft,  white  hands  stole 
around  his  throat,  he  folded  her  in  a  close  embrace  and  kissed 
her  passionately  on  her  lips. 

From  the  waters  came  the  swinging  rhythm  of  the  Barcarole. 

"  Non  senti  mai  Achille 
Per  Pulisena  bella, 
Le  cocenti  faville 
Quant'  io  senti  per  quella. 
242 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

"  Udendo  sua  favella 
Angelica  e  venozza, 
Parlar  si  amorosa 
In  su  la  fresca  erbetta." 

The  time  for  metaphors  had  passed.    He  raised  his  head. 

"  I  love  you,  Ilaria,"  he  stammered,  drunk  with  her  sweet 
ness,  "  love  you,  as  I  have  never  loved  anything  on  earth. 
Ilaria  —  Ilaria  —  " 

"  Are  we  not  free?  "  she  whispered,  her  lips  very  close  to 
his. 

He  kissed  them  again  and  again,  then  tossed  back  his  head. 

"  Free?  "  he  said.  "  Who  is  free?  Ghostly  powers,  fates 
from  ancient  days,  —  drive  us,  flesh  and  blood,  whither  they 
will!" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  on  her  lips  played  the  old-time 
childhood  smile. 

"  Have  you  forgot?  "  she  whispered  into  his  ear,  holding 
him  very  close.  "  But  it  is  not  for  me  to  remind  you  —  " 

With  a  sudden  change  her  restraint  had  vanished. 

"  We  are  among  the  shades,"  she  continued,  "  where  Pro 
serpina  should  be  at  home.  The  world  of  sun  is  far!  " 

"  I  love  you  —  "  he  stammered,  gazing  at  her  with  wide, 
hungry  eyes. 

She  bent  back  his  head,  till  their  eyes  met. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  all  the  love  she  bore  him.  Then, 
drawing  him  close,  she  whispered  a  word  in  his  ear. 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  mortal  anguish. 

"  All  creation  knows  it,  —  all  things,  animate  and  inanimate : 
but  not  I, —  not  I!" 

"  Take  me !  "  Ilaria  said  calmly,  her  face  very  white.    "  Yes 
—  I  will  drink  with  you !    But  first  —  a  libation  to  Venus !  " 

She  gathered  a  little  water  in  her  hands  and  sprinkled  it 
at  the  feet  of  the  statue. 

243 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  speechless,  full  of  wonder 
at  her  strange  bearing.  She  was  very  pale,  but  in  her  eyes 
there  gleamed  a  subtle  fire,  which  kindled  the  spark  in  his 
soul. 

"  We  have  no  cup,"  he  said  trembling. 

But  she,  stooping  swiftly,  gathered  water  once  more  in  the 
hollow  of  her  palms  and  raised  them  to  his  face. 

"Drink!"  she  whispered  eagerly.  "Drink,  while  yet  we 
dare !  " 

He  stooped  to  the  soft  white  hands  and  held  them  close  to 
his  mouth,  kissing  them  again  and  again  when  he  had  drank. 

"  Come!  "  she  said  softly. 

He  did  not  stir.    She  bent  over  him. 

"  Francesco !    I  love  you  —  come !  " 

He  fell  prone  at  her  feet,  with  a  sob  that  shook  his  whole 
frame  as  with  convulsions. 

"Oh!  That  I  might,  —  that  I  might!  I  would  not  sully 
your  white  purity  for  all  there  is  in  earth,  or  heaven !  " 

For  a  moment  she  stood  rigid,  white,  dazed. 

Suddenly  he  felt  two  arms  winding  themselves  about  his 
neck,  two  soft  lips  were  pressed  upon  his  own  in  one  long, 
delirious  kiss  —  then  he  saw  Ilaria  precipitately  retrace  her 
steps,  and  Stefano  Maconi  peer  into  the  grotto. 

After  a  time  Francesco  emerged  into  the  sunlight,  bewildered, 
dazed.  Ilaria  had  joined  the  revellers,  and  he  sank  down  upon 
a  rock  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

His  heart  and  his  soul  were  bleeding  to  death  within  him; 
and  like  his  own  phantom  he  at  last  arose  and  walked  towards 
the  sea.  The  revellers  had  lost  themselves  in  the  depths  of 
the  groves.  Again  and  again  the  swinging  rhythm  of  their 
song  was  borne  to  him  on  the  soft,  fragrant  breezes ;  yet  there 
was  but  one  thought  hi  his  heart,  one  name  on  his  lips,  as  his 
feet  bore  him  slowly  through  the  blossoming  wilderness: 
"Ilaria!  Ilaria!  "- 

244 


CHAPTER  V 


TWILIGHT   WATERS 


AZED,  in  a  state  of  mind  bor 
dering  on  utter  bewilderment, 
such  as  he  had  not  experienced 
since  the  Masque  of  the  Gods 
in  the  park  of  Avellino,  Fran 
cesco  wandered  by  the  shore, 
trying  to  bring  order  into  the 
confused  chaos  of  his  thoughts. 
Ilaria  loved  him,  always  had  she 
loved  him,  and  so  closely  were 
their  fates  bound  up  together  that  neither  could  as  much  as 
turn  without  standing  accounted  to  the  other.  During  the  last 
days  the  certainty  had  dawned  upon  him  that  the  sacrifice 
had  been  utterly  in  vain.  He  had  been  cheated  of  his  youth 
and  birthright;  utterly  helpless,  he  was  the  blind  tool  of  a 
power,  which,  by  no  human  right  nor  divine,  had  constituted 
itself  the  arbiter  of  his  destiny.  The  future  held  nothing  for 
him.  His  sympathies  were  forever  with  the  vanquished.  The 
temporal  power  of  the  Church  held  no  allurement.  He  might 
climb  in  her  service;  the  road  lay  over  the  broken  and  shattered 
ideals  of  his  youth.  — 

The  uncertainty  of  the  fate  of  the  Ghibelline  host  weighed 
heavily  upon  him.  Where  was  Conradino,  the  fair-haired 
imperial  youth,  where  were  the  leaders  of  the  vanquished  iron- 
serried  companies,  whose  march  under  the  proudly  floating 
banners  of  the  Sun-Soaring  Eagle  of  Hohenstauffen  he  had 
witnessed  from  the  summits  of  Monte  Cassino?  Had  they 

245 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

reached  the  sheltering  passes  of  the  Apennines,  had  they  fallen 
into  Anjou's  hands? 

Fascinated,  yet  oppressed  by  dire  forebodings,  Francesco 
gazed  out  over  the  land.  In  a  flood  of  crimson  and  gold,  trailing 
his  banners  through  the  western  sky,  the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest. 
The  great  mass  of  the  castello  of  Astura  was  silent  and  dark 
in  the  swiftly  descending  southern  night,  save  where  an  errant 
moonbeam  glittered  over  the  gateway  and  round-towers, 
shining  obliquely  over  the  massive  walls,  while  two  great  circles 
of  shadows  enclosed  the  stronghold  of  the  Frangipani,  like 
huge  Saturnian  rings.  Brightly,  like  a  silver  net  flung  wide 
upon  the  plains  below,  the  moonbeams  played  upon  the  sur 
rounding  marshes  the  wild,  rock-strewn  maremmas,  while 
a  stagnant  pool  below  the  Groves  of  Circe  reflected  an 
indigo  sky,  pierced  by  the  blazing  constellations  of  the 
south. 

As  in  a  dream,  he  turned  his  steps  towards  the  hostelry, 
where,  despite  the  protests  of  the  Regent,  he  had  persisted  in 
remaining.  It  suffered  him  not  in  the  palace,  amid  that  gay 
gentry  of  the  court,  near  Ilaria,  whose  society  he  must  forego, 
while  others,  less  constrained,  might  bask  in  the  perfume  of 
her  presence.  Forever  he  thought  of  her  as  of  a  flower,  en 
trusted  by  a  generous  divinity  to  earth-born  men,  to  tend  and 
to  surround  with  care. 

Arrived  at  the  inn,  Francesco  found  the  public  room  occupied 
by  a  throng  of  idlers,  who  would  scarcely  take  their  departure 
before  midnight.  Stranger  to  all,  as  he  was,  the  guests  in  the 
place  greeted  him  civilly,  as  a  possible  companion,  after  having 
studiously  examined  the  cut  of  his  garments.  One  individual 
especially  favored  him  with  his  close  attention,  unnoticed  by 
Francesco,  who,  traversing  the  room,  started  upstairs  to  his 
chamber. 

Ere  he  had  reached  the  door,  this  individual  swaggered 
through  the  crowd  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  Fran- 

246 


TWILIGHT    WATERS 

cesco  looked  at  him  vaguely;  something  familiar  teased  him 
in  the  man's  face. 

"  Am  I  addressing  Messer  Francesco  Villani,  the  papal 
envoy?  "  he  said  awkwardly. 

Francesco  nodded  with  an  air  of  vague  wonder. 

"  What  is  your  business  with  me?  " 

"  I  am  sent  to  bring  you  to  one  who  is  dying."  - 

Francesco,  with  the  custom  of  his  confraternity,  turned 
instantly  to  go,  but  on  a  sudden  impulse  he  lingered. 

"  Who  is  your  master?  "  he  asked  with  a  quick  misgiv 
ing. 

"  Raniero  Frangipani,"  replied  the  other  gruffly,  then  after 
a  pause: 

"  He  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  field  of  Scurcola!  " 

"  Lead  the  way !  "  Francesco  said  with  quick  resolve. 

The  man  nodded  assent,  and  together  they  strode  out  into 
the  street. 

"  He  is  in  fearsome  pain,  —  about  to  die,"  he  said.  "  He  is 
very  anxious  about  his  soul's  salvation."  - 

Raniero  Frangipani  about  to  die!  Raniero  Frangipani  anx 
ious  about  his  soul!  The  idea  touched  Francesco  with  grim 
humor.  Strange  thoughts  came  to  him,  as  they  hastened 
through  the  lonely  streets.  The  bright  vision  of  the  night 
shone  before  his  eyes,  alluring,  beckoning,  vanishing. 

The  vision  vanished  for  good  in  the  chamber  of  death.  No 
other  image  could  hold  its  own  before  the  face  of  Raniero. 
The  brow  was  damp ;  the  unshaven  lips  were  drawn  back  from 
the  teeth,  giving  the  countenance  a  sinister  aspect.  The  eyes 
not  only  glared,  but  searched. 

A  scared-looking  priest  was  in  the  room.  He  hailed  Fran 
cesco  with  relief. 

"  Thank  God,  you  are  come,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  sum 
moned  to  hear  the  confession,  but  the  patient  will  not  make 
it  till  he  has  seen  you  —  Messer  Capitano,  I  withdraw  —  "  he 

247 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

stammered,  for  the  awful  eyes  had  turned  in  his  direction  and 
the  lips  had  uttered  a  sound. 

Raniero  turned  painfully  to  Francesco,  satisfaction,  anxiety 
and  something  else  in  his  face. 

"  Give  me  the  blessing!  "  he  snarled.    "  Give  it  quick!  "  — 

Francesco  did  not  at  once  comply.  He  was  looking  at  Raniero, 
pity  and  horror,  repugnance  and  tenderness  at  war  in  his  face. 

"  Must  I  ask  twice?  " 

Raniero  had  found  his  voice,  harsh,  imperious,  in  all  its 
weakness. 

Francesco  could  not  refuse  to  execute  his  commission, 
though  inwardly  he  wondered  why  Raniero  had  been  brought 
to  Naples  instead  of  Astura.  He  spoke  slowly,  and  the  Frangi- 
pani's  face  expressed  satisfaction. 

"  That  ought  to  be  strong,"  muttered  the  wounded  man. 
"  A  saint's  blessing  should  have  great  power,  —  should  it  not? 
You  ought  to  know  about  such  things !  " 

He  spoke  with  an  effort,  yet  with  more  force  than  would 
have  been  supposed  possible. 

"  It  will  be  of  no  avail,  if  one  dies  unrepentant,"  said  Fran 
cesco. 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  die  unrepentant,"  returned  Raniero  with 
a  curious  look.  "  I  shall  be  honest,  —  and  thorough !  Have 
you  the  indulgence,  —  and  the  last  absolution,  —  and  the  Host, 
—  and  —  the  oil?  "  he  continued  hoarsely.  "  They  make  a 
good  showing,  —  if  one  is  really  holy !  One  takes  one's  little 
precautions !  " 

Something  like  terror  mingled  with  hatred  flared  up  hi  his 
eyes,  as  he  spoke;  then,  becoming  more  direct,  he  turned  to 
Francesco.  "  And  now,  —  for  you  and  me !  "  - 

White  hate  blazed  suddenly  hi  the  eyes,  then  was  quenched 
beneath  the  light  of  cunning. 

Francesco  was  mute.  How  could  he  speak  to  this  man  of 
the  love  of  God! 

248 


TWILIGHT    WATERS 

"  I  am  waiting !  "  growled  Raniero,  eyeing  the  other  fiercely. 
"  Speak  the  prayer  for  the  dying!  " 

Francesco  moved  not.  He  looked  at  the  sick  man  spell 
bound,  as  a  bird  would  at  a  snake.  The  words  he  wanted  to 
speak  died  in  the  utterance. 

"  I  have  never  questioned  one  of  the  Church's  doctrines," 

said  Raniero.     "  Apparently  you  are  more  of  a  heretic  than 
L" 

"  It  may  well  be,"  said  Francesco  absently. 

The  other  eyed  him  coldly,  and  a  silence  fell.  In  the  heart 
of  it  grew  and  deepened  a  significance. 

At  last  Raniero  spoke. 

"  Of  all  men  living,  I  have  hated  you  the  most !  " 

He  was  rolling  his  eyes  fearfully;   the  face  was  on  guard. 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,"  replied  Francesco.  "  Look 
within  my  heart.  Naught  is  there  towards  you  but  compas 
sion  !  " 

"  Looking  in  —  your  heart,  I  find  therein  the  image  —  of  my 
wife,  Ilaria.    As  ever,  —  looking  in  her  heart,  —  I  find  therein 
—  your  own!  " 

Raniero  hissed  the  words ;  the  dilated  glaring  eyes  were  as  a 
weapon  to  pierce  the  heart  of  which  he  spoke. 

"  It  is  true !  "  Francesco  cried  out  with  bitter  shame.  "  Yet 
if  your  eyes  can  see,  they  behold  in  my  heart  the  image  of 
the  purest  woman,  before  whom  all  my  thoughts  do  worship, 
save  rebels  still  unconquered." 

Listening  on  the  stair  without,  soldier  and  priest  nodded 
to  each  other  at  the  sound  of  the  "  De  Profundis  clamavi  ad 
te."  All  was  going  suitably  in  the  death-chamber. 

And  Raniero  listened,  as  the  other  knelt.  A  spasm  seemed 
to  pass  over  his  face. 

"  Do  you  still  hate  me?  "  asked  Francesco  anxiously,  when 
the  invocation  was  ended.  It  was  painful  to  him  to  think  that 
his  shadow  stood  between  this  man  and  eternity. 

249 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  A  little,"  replied  Raniero  with  that  curious  smile.  "  But 
I  am  almost  sure  that  I  shall  hate  you  less  —  in  a  moment. 
You  remember  —  I  have  taken  from  you  —  Ilaria!  " 

There  was  a  strange  note  of  triumph  in  his  speech. 

"  Do  you  forgive  even  that?  "  asked  Raniero  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  I  have  forgiven,"  said  the  other  with  bowed  head. 

"Come  hither  then!"  cried  Raniero.  Craving  was  in  his 
tones  and  eyes.  "  Make  on  my  forehead,  and  on  my  breast, 
in  token  of  your  forgiveness,  —  the  sign  of  the  holy  cross !  " 

He  seemed  to  grow  faint.  A  strange  restlessness  had  seized 
him.  He  had  closed  his  eyes;  his  lips  moved  as  in  prayer. 
One  hand  stirred  beneath  the  cover. 

Francesco  came  to  his  side,  and  stooping  began  solemnly  to 
trace  the  sign. 

Concentrated  hate,  loosed  from  its  leash,  snarled,  shone  in 
Raniero's  face.  Francesco  saw  nothing.  A  lifted  hand,  —  a 
glittering  flash:  the  knife  struck  fierce  and  deep.  But  the 
hand  that  guided  it,  trembled ;  it  missed  the  heart.  With  an 
outcry  of  pain  Francesco  staggered  and  fell  backward. 

"Gr-r-r-h!"  snarled  Raniero,  like  a  great  cat,  growling 
over  its  prey,  as  he  leaped  from  the  bed. 

At  the  sound  of  the  fall  the  two  waiting  without  had  rushed 
in.  Seizing  the  opportune  moment,  Raniero  dashed  past  them, 
out  into  the  darkness,  leaving  them  with  his  unconscious 
victim. 

Removed  to  the  inn,  where  Raniero's  messenger  had  found 
him,  Francesco's  unconscious  state  slowly  gave  way  to  a  de 
lirium,  which  made  constant  attendance  imperative.  Terror- 
stricken  by  the  act  and  its  probable  consequences,  the  two 
who  had  been  present  hi  Raniero's  sick-chamber  had  sum 
moned  a  leech,  whose  efforts  to  break  the  delirium  of  the 
sufferer  seemed  at  first  of  little  avail. 

Now  he  was  at  Avellino,  hi  the  garden,  at  dusk.  Roses  were 

250 


TWILIGHT    WATERS 

everywhere,  in  riotous  profusion,  —  flame  roses,  every  one 
curled  into  fiery  petal-whorls,  dancing  in  the  garden-dusk 
under  a  red,  red  sky.  Now  the  chariot  of  Amor!  The  rose 
chaplet  has  burned  Amor's  brow !  Oh !  Turn  away  from  the 
tortured  face  of  the  poor  young  God  of  Love !  No  matter,  we 
will  see  the  pageant  out!  But  that  woman  with  the  Scarlet 
Robe  must  not  be  in  the  show !  She  is  the  Woman  of  the  Red 
Tower!  Lead  her  away!  Francesco  must  wear  the  fiery 
circlet  and  march  with  the  rest! 

Now  he  is  at  Viterbo!  Clement,  most  Holy  Father,  do  not 
caper  about  so  strangely !  Take  off  those  striped  clothes !  At 
least,  if  you  will  wear  them,  put  your  tiara  aside.  Yes,  —  you 
juggle  excellently  well  with  those  many  balls.  White !  Black ! 
How  high  you  toss  them  up !  How  deftly  you  catch  them !  Ha ! 
We  see  the  trick.  With  each  toss  a  white  ball  turns  black. 
They  are  all  black  now,  and  Messere,  the  Cardinals  are  grin 
ning  !  Horror !  Are  those  the  Cardinals?  Hoofs  in  red  stock 
ings?  Horns  peering  out  under  the  cap?  The  scarlet  robes 
are  flames  of  a  burning  village,  and  the  Cardinals  point  long 
claws  and  hiss  applause,  while  the  mountebank  weeps.  And 
Francesco  weeps  too! 

Now  the  serene  peace  of  the  wide-glimmering  sea !  Golden 
columns  are  shining  through  the  water!  He  turns  to  the 
shore,  —  and  as  he  turns  the  great  sea  stirs.  It  heaves,  it 
writhes,  it  rises !  With  onward  movement,  as  of  a  coiling  snake, 
the  whole  vast  liquid  brilliance  rushes  upon  the  temple.  Mighty 
billows  of  beryl  curve  and  break  in  sheets  of  whitest  foam,  — 
not  foam,  rather  the  soft  limbs  of  sea-nymphs.  Within  the 
green  translucence,  —  ah !  the  threatening  splendor !  Behold 
the  awful,  tottering  walls ! 

The  crash  has  come!  In  the  depths  of  the  sea  Francesco 
stands  alone!  The  temple  still  rises  around  him,  no  more 
a  ruin,  but  perfect  in  every  part!  The  light  is  emerald.  He 
stands  by  an  altar,  —  no,  it  is  Fonte  Gaia !  Bending  down  he 

251 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

beholds  first  a  dizzying  glimmer,  as  of  sun-rays  reflected  from 
wet  bright  pebbles,  set  in  gay  patterns  at  the  bottom.  Pres 
ently  his  own  reflection  clears:  the  face  of  Ilaria,  lovely  be 
yond  all  memory  or  dream,  is  bending  beside  it. 

The  White  Lady!  She  is  there  in  her  gown,  creeping  with 
brightest  broideries.  She  offers  him  a  golden  cup !  "  Drink, 
Francesco ! "  she  implores.  Strange  sea-lights  waver  about 
her  beauty;  in  a  way  she  is  changed;  but  it  is  the  voice  of  the 
girl  he  has  loved  better  than  all  the  world.  Suddenly  a  shadow 
stands  between  them.  He  shivers  in  the  warm  air.  — 

What  is  there  between  Ilaria  and  Stefano  Maconi! 

Now  some  one  flies  past,  a  cord  around  his  neck. 

"Beware!"  cries  a  voice,  and  on  the  rainbow  brightness 
of  Ilaria  falls  the  shadow  of  mighty  wings.  Swooping  down 
from  the  roof,  one  of  the  great  demons  of  Lecceto  hovers, 
poised  hawk-like.  The  face  is  Raniero's;  the  body,  that  of  a 
vulture.  Francesco,  horror-stricken,  watches  for  the  fiend  to 
dart,  to  fasten  his  claws  in  Ilaria's  dusky  hair,  to  bear  her  aloft, 
away,  her  shrieks  trailing  after  her.  But  this  does  not  happen. 
In  a  faint  light,  like  a  mountain-mist  at  dawn,  the  whole  scene 
fades  away,  and  Francesco  bursts  into  wild  and  violent  weep 
ing  that  seems  as  if  it  would  drain  his  soul  away. 

When,  after  a  few  days,  Francesco  opened  his  eyes,  he  found 
himself  in  a  high-vaulted  room  of  the  palace,  Ilaria  bending 
over  him  wide-eyed,  pale  of  face.  With  a  choked  outcry  he 
grasped  the  soft  white  hands  to  his  lips,  his  eyes  raised  to  her 
in  long,  mute  questioning.  She  bent  over  him  and  kissed  his 
lips. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  whispered,  then  looked  away. 

His  questionings  at  last  elicited  the  response  that  at  the 
behest  of  the  Regent  he  had  been  brought  to  the  palace,  where 
Ilaria  herself  had  been  tending  to  his  comfort.  The  name 
of  his  assailant  had  remained  no  secret.  Yet,  beyond  vague 
whisperings,  it  was  not  again  alluded  to. 

252 


TWILIGHT    WATERS 

Sleep,  deep  and  dreamless,  blessed  the  racked  body  through 
out  the  day;  the  sleep  that  leaves  one's  past  life  far  behind 
and  from  which  one  wakes  in  weak  expectancy  and  the  help 
less  peace  of  a  new-born  child. 

It  was  at  the  Vesper  hour  that  this  waking  came  to  Francesco. 
Sunset  light  filled  the  gloom  of  the  high-vaulted  room.  A 
distant  silver  gleam  had  filled  him  with  strange  comfort  and 
strange  sorrow.  Ilaria  had  left  him  in  care  of  the  leech,  a  little 
Greek  with  restless,  ever-shifting  eyes.  Through  the  case 
ment  the  evening  star  looked  in.  Beyond  Castel  del  Ovo  he 
divined  the  far-trembling  sea,  quieted  to  a  pure  colorless 
memory  of  the  day  that  had  died,  yet  brighter  than  the  dark 
ening  skies.  - 

Lying  peacefully  convalescent,  Francesco  looked  back  as 
from  a  still  haven  on  the  storms  that  had  shaken  him  since 
his  departure  from  Avellino.  Had  a  great  enfranchisement  or 
a  great  imprisonment  befallen  him?  Life,  the  master,  would 
show  him  in  good  time.  Certainly  the  entrance  into  fresh 
intellectual  regions  which  had  intoxicated  him  for  the  tune, 
seemed  less  important  now.  For  one  thing,  he  perceived  the 
passion  for  novelty,  as  synonymous  with  progress,  to  be  a 
mere  delusion  of  the  arch-wizard,  Time.  And,  hi  a  flash,  he 
saw  that  it  was  but  the  old  uncertainty  in  a  new  sphere.  Was 
the  Church  the  visible  expression  of  Life?  Must  he  remain 
forever  under  the  yoke,  to  atone  for  his  own  existence,  hun 
gering  after  that  which  other  men  freely  enjoyed?  And  sud 
denly,  like  a  flash,  a  phase  of  his  dream  leaped  into  his  wake 
ful  state.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  groaned. 

What  was  there  between  Ilaria  Caselli  and  Stefano  Maconi? 


253 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE   CRIMSON    NIGHT 

T  had  been  a  day  of  driving 
wind  and  rain.  The  sound  of 
the  sea  beat  weirdly  through 
the  streets  of  Naples.  The 
great  street  of  the  Provencals 
leading  from  Castel  del  Ovo 
to  Castel  Nuovo  was  covered 
with  spray.  Within  the  palace 
of  the  Regent  there  was  singing 
and  feasting.  Distant  strains 
of  music  wandered  out  towards  the  night  to  Francesco's 
chamber.  They  seemed  to  whisper  of  things  that  were  not 
for  him,  and  he  set  his  teeth  with  a  smothered  groan. 

Ilaria  was  there,  and  Stefano  Maconi!  He,  the  monk,  had 
not  been  bidden  to  the  feast. 

And  slowly  there  came  to  him  a  memory,  vague  and  con 
fused,  of  a  weary  wandering  through  endless  night,  torn  by 
temptation  and  desire,  raging  with  defiance  at  his  fate,  con 
sumed  by  a  fear  that  ran  through  his  veins  like  fire  and  seemed 
to  scorch  the  very  soul  within  him.  Suddenly  blind  fury  at 
his  impotence  in  the  face  of  a  supreme  and  arrogant  power 
invaded  his  being.  Resist  as  he  would,  he  was  the  bondsman 
of  the  Church! 

At  last  it  suffered  Francesco  no  longer  in  his  chamber. 
Entering  a  dark  passage,  he  crept  past  silent  courts,  through 
narrow  galleries.    When  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  he 
dropped  back  into  the  shadows.    The  music  allured  and  re 
pelled  him,  and  hungry-eyed  he  lurched  forward,  until  he  had 

254 


THE    CRIMSON    NIGHT 

gained  a  space  above  the  great  hall,  whence  he  might  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  merriment  below. 

The  banqueting  hall  was  a  riot  of  color.  On  its  columns 
of  polished  marble,  veined  hi  green  and  rose,  light  played 
in  sliding  gleams  from  great  lamps  of  wrought  bronze,  hung 
by  chains  around  the  dome  and  between  the  pillars.  The 
floor  of  glowing  mosaic  was  overlaid  with  rugs  of  fantastic 
color  aid  with  tawny  skins  of  beasts.  The  walls  were  wide 
panels  of  mosaics,  set  hi  stucco,  vivid  with  red  and  blue,  green 
and  azure,  picturing  scenes  of  hunting  and  carousal.  Per 
fumes  burned  in  silver  jars,  set  on  pedestals  of  black  marble 
along  the  walls,  sending  forth  faint  spirals  of  smoke  into  the 
heated  air.  The  long  table,  lined  on  either  side  with  men  and 
women,  was  directly  beneath  the  dome.  Looking  down  upon 
it,  Francesco  saw  a  confusion  of  gold  and  silver  dishes  with 
the  ruby  glow  of  Samian  plates,  and  cups  gleaming  among 
strewn  leaves  and  blossoms.  The  garments  of  the  guests 
were  as  a  fringe  of  color  about  the  table's  edge,  purple,  saffron 
and  gold,  crimson,  green  and  white. 

The  central  figure  at  the  board  was  Ilaria.  She  sat  between 
Stefano  Maconi  and  another  noble.  At  times  her  gaiety  bor 
dered  on  delirium,  though  her  smiling  face,  proudly  upheld 
as  though  she  scorned  to  give  way  before  the  eyes  upon  her, 
was  white,  but  her  lips  were  as  scarlet  as  the  flowers  she  wore. 
She  had  changed  her  attire  since  she  had  left  him.  A  Persian 
gauze,  filmy  as  mist,  enveloped  her  sylph-like  form,  sur 
mounted  by  a  head-dress  of  gold,  in  which  two  poppies  flamed 
upon  either  temple.  Never  had  she  looked  more  beautiful,  not 
even  at  the  parting-feast  at  AvelHno,  when  alone  she  had  en 
tered  the  dusky  dining-hall  and  had  taken  her  seat  apart  from 
him.  Then,  as  now,  she  had  worn  the  red  rose;  the  other 
was  long  wilted,  forgotten  perchance.  The  flowers  she  wore 
were  of  a  deep,  intense  color,  almost  like  blood  upon  the 
stainless  skin  of  her  exposed  throat. 

255 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

She  had  not  even  informed  him  of  the  evening's  festivities. 
Was  it  to  save  him  pain,  in  not  desiring  his  presence,  —  was  it 
in  order  not  to  subject  him  to  the  taunts  and  insults  of  the  Nea 
politans?  Francesco  noted  the  smile  of  her  parted  lips;  he 
noted  the  vivaciousness  with  which  she  received  the  adoration 
of  her  guests.  Yet,  while  he  looked  on  from  the  heights  of  his 
dreary  solitude,  could  he  have  seen  Ilaria's  eyes,  they  would 
have  taught  him  different,  for  they  never  participated  in  the 
smile  of  her  lips.  Something  like  jealousy  gripped  him  at  last, 
he  clenched  his  teeth  and  the  scene  below  him  swam  in  a 
blood-red  mist. 

She  was  lost  to  him,  —  always  he  had  known  it,  known  the 
hopelessness  of  his  passion,  all  the  sweeter  for  the  bitterness 
that  was  in  it,  —  but  never  until  then  had  the  knowledge  so 
come  home  to  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  force  his  way  in 
among  these  smirking,  soft  cavaliers,  and  tear  her  from  their 
midst ;  hi  his  hot  eyes  there  raged  hate  and  love.  His  thoughts 
maddened  him.  This  was  her  life,  —  and  what  was  his?  She 
would  leave  him  the  prey  of  all  the  devils  of  jealousy  and  fear, 
which  tore  his  breast.  He  groaned  aloud,  and  dropped  his  face 
in  his  hands,  a  strange  figure  of  desperate  longing,  desperate 
bewilderment,  rebellion  and  pain.  He  shook  to  the  primal 
passions  of  love  and  hate  that  tore  him,  love  for  one,  —  hate 
for  all  that  had  gone  to  make  the  conditions  of  his  life  what 
they  must  be;  according  to  the  measure  of  his  pain  he  suf 
fered  in  fierce  revolt  against  the  mocking  Fates  that  were 
stronger  than  he.  His  place  was  by  her  side,  at  the  festal 
board,  —  and  while  another  had  purchased  and  possessed 
her  body,  her  soul  was  his,  —  his,  —  his,  for  all  tune  and  all 
eternity.  He  it  was  who  had  waked  her  heart  from  its  empty 
sleep,  he  who  taught  it  first  to  live  and  love,  —  he,  her  soul's 
lord,  even  as  the  other  her  body's  master,  —  he,  the  monk! 

"  Will  the  wound  in  your  heart  heal,  when  I  shall  have  gone 
—  perhaps  forever?  "  he  muttered,  "  or  will  your  love  fade  and 

256 


THE    CRIMSON    NIGHT 

die?  It  may  be  that  it  shall  be  never  quite  forgotten,  —  that  in 
after  days  a  word,  a  song,  the  fragrance  of  a  flower  shall  revive 
a  dim  memory.  But  my  love  must  last,  —  to  burn  and  sear.  — 
Ah,  beloved !  We  had  no  right  to  happiness,  you  and  I !  But 
wherefore  not?  And  who  decreed  it  so?  Long  months  have  I 
lain  in  darkness,  for  I  dreamed  of  the  time  when  I  should 
come  to  you !  Now  the  dream  has  gone  from  me !  On  all  the 
earth  there  is  none  so  lonely,  as  I  am!  "  - 

Again  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  crouching  against  the 
wall.  The  music  of  unseen  players  rose  to  him  like  a  breath 
from  that  scarcely  vanished  past  playing  upon  him;  calloused 
body  and  sensitive  tortured  soul,  conjuring  forth  visions 
of  dead  golden  hours,  weaving  its  own  poignant  spell.  Voices 
from  the  hall  mingled  with  it,  in  talk  and  heedless  laughter. 
When  life  was  gay  and  careless,  when  wine  was  red  and  eyes 
were  bright  and  faces  fair,  —  who  would  pause  to  give  thought 
to  another's  sorrow?  And  he  —  a  monk !  - 

Minutes  dropped  away,  link  by  link,  from  the  golden  chain 
of  Time.  A  faint  gleam  of  light  playing  on  Francesco's  features 
revealed  the  scarring  passion  in  his  face,  signs  visible  of  the 
chaos  of  inward  tumult  which  tore  him,  of  the  slow  forces 
gathering  for  the  inevitable  battle  waged  somewhere,  some 
how,  by  every  human  soul.  And  that  face,  haggard,  with 
haunted  shadowy  eyes,  looked  all  at  once  strangely  purged 
of  the  heat  of  its  passion,  for  on  it  was  the  presage  of  the 
fierce,  slow  travail  of  spirit  rending  flesh. 

Her  white  purity  had  raised  her  above  him ;  if  he  had  wa 
kened  her  soul,  she  had  in  turn  given  him  a  soul  within  his  soul, 
wakening  it  to  what  it  never  knew  before,  new  dreams,  new 
ambitions,  new  desires.  Through  her  he  had  seen  the  great 
world  which  was  her  world,  wherein  lay  all  for  which  men  long 
and  strive.  One  glimpse  he  had;  and  now  the  gates  were 
closed  and  the  light  was  gone  and  he  was  thrust  back  into 
outer  darkness.  — 

257 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

A  peal  of  laughter  rose  to  him,  a  burst  of  music,  a  half  hun 
dred  voices  shouting  acclaim  in  response  to  some  unheard 
toast.  He  looked  down  once  more  into  the  light  and  the  color 
of  the  great  hall,  seeing  one  there  only,  out  of  all  that  brilliant 
throng,  one  fair  and  drooping,  with  scarlet  poppies  framing 
her  white  face.  Long  and  long  he  looked,  as  though  he  would 
burn  her  image  upon  his  heart  and  mind  forever:  the  woman 
he  had  lost,  and  who  had  never  been  his. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Ilaria  start.  Some  one  seemed  to  have 
brought  a  message  to  her.  With  a  smile  to  those  seated  next 
to  her,  she  arose  from  the  board  and,  hurrying  across  the  hall, 
entered  a  dim,  dusky  corridor.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
Francesco,  impelled  by  curiosity  and  misgivings,  quitted  his 
point  of  vantage,  and,  turning  into  the  nearest  passage,  de 
scended  by  a  winding  stair  into  the  hall  below.  In  some  way 
the  intricate  labyrinth  of  corridors  confused  his  mind,  and  he 
found  himself  in  a  circular  chamber  of  rough  blocks  of  stone, 
with  two  doors.  Around  the  walls  hung  instruments  of  war, 
of  torture,  of  the  chase;  chains  with  heavy  balls  of  iron  at 
tached,  a  stand  of  spears,  another  of  great  swords.  Here  were 
also  great  six-foot  bows,  such  as  the  Saracen  archers  used, 
and  suits  of  armor  with  shields  and  breast-plates,  and  crested 
helmets  of  brass  and  iron. 

Francesco  paused,  listened  for  Ilaria's  footsteps,  then, 
failing  to  hear  a  sound,  traversed  the  chamber  on  tiptoe  until 
he  came  to  the  opposite  door. 

Beyond  this  chamber  there  opened  a  spacious  court.  Blindly 
Francesco  stumbled  onward,  wondering  at  the  silence,  and 
wondering  what  direction  Ilaria  had  taken,  when,  traversing  the 
court,  he  suddenly  paused  at  the  entrance  of  a  dimly  lighted  hall. 

A  single  cresset  burned  upon  the  dais  wall,  and  the  fire  on 
the  ground  hearth  under  the  louvre  sent  up  a  drift  of  smoke 
into  the  murk  above.  The  great  space  was  full  of  shadows 
and  of  silence. 

258 


THE    CRIMSON    NIGHT 

Suddenly  Francesco  gave  a  start,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  spectre. 

In  an  oaken  chair  by  the  dais  sat  Raniero  Frangipani.  The 
brutal  expression  of  his  countenance  seemed  even  enhanced 
by  the  shadows  which  played  upon  it,  and  the  expression  of 
his  eyes  boded  little  good  for  whomsoever  his  presence  was 
intended.  His  sword  lay  beside  him  on  the  table;  his  shield 
was  propped  against  a  carved  mazor-bowl.  Francesco  felt 
there  was  mischief  brewing,  wondered,  and  held  his  breath. 

Raniero's  figure  seemed  part  of  the  silence  and  the  shad 
ows  of  the  hall.  His  face  was  cruel  and  alert,  and  the  light 
from  the  cresset  played  in  red  streaks  upon  his  helmet.  His 
attitude  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  not  here  by  chance, 
and  the  furtive  glances  he  cast  about  him  seemed  to  confirm 
this  supposition. 

What  was  Raniero  doing  here?  From  his  point  of  vantage 
in  a  niche,  Francesco  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  air,  in  which 
there  was  hardly  a  trace  of  resentment  of  the  injury  he  had 
so  lately  suffered  at  his  hand.  His  fears  were  all  for  Ilaria, 
for  he  could  no  longer  doubt  that  Raniero  had  sent  for  her, 
and  he  was  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  meeting. 

The  Frangipani's  eyes  were  away  from  Francesco,  directed 
towards  the  green  curtain  that  covered  the  dais  door.  For  a 
while  nothing  happened.  Then  Francesco  heard  a  sound  like 
the  creaking  of  hinges.  The  curtain  stirred  and  bulged,  with 
the  pressing  against  it  of  some  one's  body. 

Francesco's  blood  froze  as,  in  the  one  who  came  through, 
he  recognized  Ilaria. 

He  was  afraid  to  move,  afraid  to  breathe,  lest  she  should 
cry  out,  and  she  moved  so  closely  by  him,  that  he  could  have 
almost  touched  her,  yet  he  feared  to  betray  his  own  presence. 

Ilaria  swept  the  hall  and  then  came  to  a  point  where  Raniero 
sat  motionless  as  some  huge  beast,  ready  to  spring  upon  its 
prey.  Her  face  was  tense  and  watchful,  her  lips  pressed  tight, 
her  eyes  steady,  though  afraid. 

259 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

In  the  next  moment  she  and  Raniero  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  Raniero  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Madonna,"  he  sneered,  "  I  have  waited  for  your  home 
coming." 

Ilaria  stood  by  the  wall.  To  Francesco  she  appeared  calm 
and  unflurried;  but  her  knees  were  trembling  and  there  was 
fear  in  her  eyes. 

Ilaria  made  no  reply  to  the  taunting  voice  of  her  lord,  and 
Raniero,  after  having  waited  for  some  time,  continued : 

"  You  have  no  answer,  Madonna?  Shall  I  tell  you  what  you 
already  know?  "  — 

Ilaria  regarded  him  out  of  shadowy  eyes,  then  flashed: 

"  Speak  out,  and  save  me  riddles!  " 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  scorn  hi  her  voice.  Raniero, 
moistening  his  lips,  frowned. 

"  For  your  good  welcome  I  give  you  thanks,"  he  snarled. 

"  What  brought  you  here?  "  she  queried. 

"  If  it  had  been  your  beauty,  Madonna  —  " 

With  a  gesture,  she  cut  him  short. 

"  Your  courtesy  bribes  me  to  silence !  " 

"  What  of  obedience?  " 

She  took  a  backward  step. 

"To  you?" 

Her  voice,  always  low,  quivered  with  scorn. 

"  Are  you  not  the  Lady  of  the  Frangipani?  "  he  replied  with 
a  brutal  laugh,  while  his  eyes  grew  dull  as  treacherous  water. 

"  You  need  not  remind  me !  " 

"  Your  memory  will  serve  us  both.    Astura  awaits  you !  " 

Ilaria  shrank  against  the  wall,  while,  with  a  swift  movement, 
Raniero  stepped  between  her  and  the  curtain. 

"Astura!"  she  flashed,  horror  in  her  eyes.  "Never! 
Never!" 

The  Frangipani  eyed  her  ominously. 

"  I  knew  not  the  abode  was  so  distasteful  to  you !  "  he  said 

260 


THE     CRIMSON     NIGHT 

with  an  evil  leer.    "  There  are  no  recreant  monks  in  Astura,  - 
nevertheless  —  who  shall  drink  after  me?  "  he  cried  with  the 
gesture  of  one  throwing  up  a  libation. 

Ilaria  summoned  up  her  courage. 

"  Why  are  you  here?  "  she  faltered. 

"  To  take  you  back,"  he  hissed  brutally.  "  I  begin  to  long 
for  the  society  of  my  wife  - 

She  raised  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"  Oh,  —  not  that,  —  not  that  —  " 

"  No?  "  He  took  a  step  towards  her,  feasting  his  eyes  on 
Ilaria's  great  beauty.  "  By  San  Gennaro !  I  knew  not  how 
beautiful  you  were !  " 

Ilaria  crept  along  the  wall,  trying  to  evade  him.  Yet  his  eyes 
held  her  captive,  as  a  bird  is  charmed  by  the  gaze  of  a  basilisk. 
He  made  a  sudden  lurch  and  missed  her.  She  uttered  a  smoth 
ered  outcry.  Raniero  laughed,  being  sure  of  his  victim.  Now 
he  faced  her.  There  seemed  no  escape  for  her. 

"  You  seem  not  greatly  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  returning 
to  Astura,  —  to  the  duties  of  a  wife?  "  he  sneered,  the  malig 
nant  leer  of  old  lighting  up  his  features. 

She  gave  a  shrill  laugh. 

"  Rather  those  of  a  concubine  —  " 

Raniero  bowed  mockingly. 

"  If  the  new  dignity  pleases  you,  I  care  not,  —  it  is  all  one,  — 
you  have  but  to  choose.    You  see  I  can  still  speak  calmly  to 
the  concubine  of  the  monk." 

Every  vestige  of  color  had  left  Ilaria's  face. 

Her  white  hands  were  upon  her  bosom,  as  if  to  calm  its  tem 
pestuous  heaving,  while  she  stood  before  him  with  a  disdain 
in  her  eyes,  before  which  even  the  libertine  quailed. 

Yet  her  voice  sounded  hardly  above  a  whisper  as  she  spoke, 
but  all  the  hatred  and  contempt,  nurtured  through  long  days 
and  nights,  spoke  to  him  in  her  words. 

"  Liar  and  fiend !   You,  who  have  wrecked  my  life,  destroyed 

261 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

my  peace  and  poisoned  my  soul,  —  you,  who  have  made  my 
days  a  torture  and  my  nights  a  curse !  I  know  you  not,  —  nor 
will  I  ever  return  to  Astura !  Dare  but  to  touch  me  —  and  I 
will  slay  you  with  my  own  hands !  "  - 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  flashed  a  poniard  in  his 
face. 

Raniero  laughed,  a  harsh,  grating  laugh,  while  he  drew  back 
before  the  withering  scorn  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  a  charming  Mary  of  Magdala!  I  begin  to  know  and 
understand  you !  I  never  knew  that  the  icy  shell  of  your  body 
contained  such  fires,  —  like  a  volcano  crowned  with  snow." 

He  made  a  step  towards  her.  She  watched  him  closely,  her 
eyes  glowing  with  a  fevered  lustre.  As  he  tried  to  wrench  the 
poniard  from  her,  its  sharp  point  pricked  his  skin. 

He  uttered  a  furious  oath,  while  she,  with  a  shrill  outcry  of 
fear,  turned  and  ran.  But  her  feet  were  caught  in  the  sweep 
ing  trail  of  her  gown.  She  fell  and,  blind  with  rage,  Raniero 
hurled  his  shield  upon  her  prostrate  form. 

Ilaria  gave  a  moan  and  lay  still. 

So  quickly  had  it  all  happened  that  Francesco  could  not 
have  saved  her,  though  he  would.  He  had  heard  every  word 
between  them,  in  his  concealment,  but  had  in  vain  looked  about 
for  some  instrument  of  attack  with  which  to  parry  Raniero's 
blade.  It  had  presented  itself  at  last  in  the  shape  of  a  bludgeon, 
long  in  disuse,  over  which  he  had  accidentally  stumbled. 

With  a  hoarse  outcry  he  charged  into  the  room. 

The  Frangipani  was  bandaging  his  wounded  hand,  but  as 
he  recognized  his  assailant,  Francesco  heard  him  spit  out  a 
vile  epithet,  as  he  came  charging  down  the  hall,  his  eyes 
blazing  with  hate.  Francesco  waited  his  chance.  Then,  with 
all  his  might,  he  hurled  his  weapon  at  him.  It  struck  Raniero 
squarely  on  the  forehead  and  sent  him  sprawling.  But  even  as 
he  fell,  he  stabbed  and  missed.  Francesco  dashed  anew  for  his 
weapon.  A  second  blow  on  Raniero's  head:  he  shot  out  hand 

262 


THE    CRIMSON    NIGHT 

and  sword,  and  lay  still.  For  a  moment  Francesco  stood  over 
him  with  raised  club.  But  when  he  did  not  move,  he  rushed 
towards  the  spot  where  Ilaria  lay. 

With  a  moan  he  sprang  over  the  table  and  bent  over  the 
prostrate  form. 

She  lay  with  her  body  twisted,  one  cheek  pressed  against 
the  stones,  her  right  arm  under  her  bosom.  He  touched  her 
brow,  her  face,  her  fingers.  She  was  breathing;  the  trans 
parent  lids  were  closed,  and  a  peaceful  expression  was  on  her 
face,  as  on  that  of  a  slumbering  child.  He  folded  her  in  his 
arms,  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  lips  of  the  woman  and  whis 
pered  a  thousand  endearing  epithets  into  her  ears.  As  he 
did  so,  she  opened  her  eyes. 

Bewildered,  she  gazed  about  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  wander 
ing  from  Francesco  to  the  apparently  lifeless  form  on  the 
floor  of  the  hall. 

"  Take  me  away!  "  she  moaned.  "  Take  me  away!  Is  he 
dead?  " 

A  great  awe  had  come  into  her  eyes. 

"Only  stunned!"  replied  Francesco,  inquiring  with  great 
misgiving  if  she  was  hurt,  yet  preferring  to  let  her  attribute 
her  fall  to  an  accident  rather  than  to  reveal  the  truth. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  as  he  held  it  between  his  hands. 

"  Take  me  away,"  she  said  with  a  heart-broken  sob.  "  The 
hour  of  which  I  have  so  often  dreamed  has  come.  Take  me 
to  San  Nicandro  by  the  Sea."  - 

With  all  the  love  he  bore  her,  he  begged  her  to  remain,  to 
be  near  him,  not  to  leave  him  thus  to  darkness  and  despair. 

"  Your  river  has  reached  the  sea !  "  she  said  with  a  heart 
broken  smile.  "  As  you  love  me,  do  as  I  ask !  " 

She  felt  strong  enough  to  walk,  only  a  slight  bruise  bearing 
witness  to  the  Frangipani's  violence.  Leaving  him  where  he 
lay,  they  slowly  retraced  their  steps,  when  wild  shouts  and 
cries  of  alarm  were  wafted  to  them  from  above.  The  frenzied 

263 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

revellers  were  rushing  to  and  fro  in  the  palace ;  from  the  city 
came  the  clangor  of  bells,  and  the  loud  blare  of  the  wardens' 
horns  from  the  gates. 

The  cause  was  not  slow  revealing  itself. 

An  immense  black  cloud,  palpitating  with  lightnings,  had 
settled  on  the  cone  of  Vesuvius.  The  sky  had  cleared;  and 
the  moon,  changed  to  blood-red  hues,  hung  like  a  rayless  sun 
midway  in  the  nocturnal  heavens.  Suddenly  the  air  became 
hot  to  suffocation.  For  a  moment  deep  silence  reigned.  Then, 
a  sharp  report  as  of  a  thunder-clap  in  closest  proximity  shook 
the  earth.  A  gigantic  stream  of  lava  was  belched  forth  from 
the  smoke-wreathed  mountain,  the  air  was  obscured  by  a 
rain  of  mud  and  brimstone,  which  fell  far  and  wide  in  Torre 
del  Greco  and  was  carried  to  Naples.  Like  a  thousand  fiery 
serpents  the  lava  coiled  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain;  a 
stench  of  sulphur  filled  the  air,  and  giant  tongues  of  flame, 
leaping  upward  through  the  rugged  crater,  lighted  the  land 
scape  to  the  remotest  horizon. 

While,  fascinated  by  the  awful  spectacle,  Francesco  and 
Ilaria  gazed  spellbound  towards  Vesuvius,  another  incident 
added  to  the  terror  of  the  night.  Shrill  and  insistent  from  the 
summits  of  Astura  blared  the  horn  of  the  warden,  waking  the 
slumbering  echoes  of  Torre  del  Greco.  And  suddenly  a  fleet 
of  many  ships  came  steering  round  the  Cape  of  Circe,  heading 
for  the  open  sea;  while  Astura's  ramparts  bristled  with  spear 
points. 

Francesco  turned  to  the  nearest  bystander,  pointing  to  the 
castello. 

There  was  a  great  fear  in  the  eyes  of  him  who  made  reply. 

"  Bribed  by  the  Pontiff  the  Frangipani  have  delivered 
Conradino  into  the  hands  of  Anjou.  Behold  yonder  —  the 
fleet  of  Charles'  Admiral,  Robert  of  Lavenna,  carrying  the  cap 
tive  king  and  his  companions  to  their  doom !  "  — 

Wide-eyed,  pale  as  death,  Francesco  and  Ilaria  stared  at 

264 


THE    CRIMSON    NIGHT 

each  other,  neither  trusting  themselves  to  speak.  Then  a 
half-smothered  sob  broke  from  the  woman's  lips,  as  she  leaned 
.her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

A  strange  calm  had  settled  over  Francesco  as  he  gazed 
from  Ilaria  towards  the  ramparts  of  Astura. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them,  then  he  raised 
himself  to  his  full  height  as  he  turned  to  her. 

"  Hitherto  I  have  served  God!  Now  I  will  serve  my  own 
soul!" 


End  of  Book  the  Fourth. 


265 


Book  the  Fifth 

THE   APOSTACY 


CHAPTER  I 


A   LEGEND 


DT  into  the  open  caverns  of 
the  night  Francesco  and  Ilaria 
rode.  Their  eyes  still  roved 
from  the  fading  city  to  the  great 
ships  stealing  over  the  water. 
Their  tall  masts  rose  against 
the  last  gleaming  cranny  of  the 
west.  Beyond  them  the  moun 
tains  towered  solemn  and  stu 
pendous,  fringed  with  aureoles 
of  transient  fire.  Even  in  the  half-gloom  they  could  see  a 
vague  glittering  movement  on  the  slopes  behind  Astura,  a 
glitter  that  told  of  armed  men  marching  from  the  hills,  while 
shadowy  ships  seemed  striding,  solemn  and  silent,  out  of  the 
night.  A  thousand  oars  seemed  to  churn  the  water.  Sudden 
out  of  the  gloom  leaped  the  cry  of  a  horn,  its  voice  echoing 
from  the  hills.  A  vague  clamor  came  from  the  shore.  In 
Astura  torches  were  gleaming  like  red  moths  in  a  garden. 
From  the  castle  the  alarm  bell  boomed  and  clashed ;  then  like 
giants'  ghosts  the  ships  crept  out  to  sea,  sable  and  strange 
against  the  fading  west. 

As  Francesco  turned,  sick  at  heart,  he  met  liana's  eyes. 
Her  sweet,  proud  face  was  near  him  once  again,  overtopping 
his  manhood.    The  moonbeams  played  upon  her  dusky  hair. 
The  silence  was  intense.    Only  the  pounding  of  their  horses' 
feet  beat  insistent  clamor  into  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

The  trees  and  bushes  began  to  mass  themselves  into  denser 
shadow  against  the  tinge  of  ghostly  starlight. 

269 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

Now  her  face  was  very  close  to  his. 

"  At  times  I  feel  as  if  we  had  lived  very,  very  long  ago,  — 
ages  and  ages  ago,  when  the  world  was  young  and  only  the 
moon  and  the  stars  were  old.  None  walked  upon  the  earth 
save  we  two  and  the  world  and  its  beauty  was  for  us  alone. 
Dusky  forests  covered  the  land,  where  strange  flowers  bloomed, 
where  strange  birds  sang.  Beneath  the  sunken  light  of  a 
seared  moon  we  walked  hand  in  hand."  - 

A  great  wave  of  misery  swept  over  him. 

"  I  love  you,  —  I  love  you,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "  Heart 
of  my  heart,  that  is  the  tale,  a  tale  of  three  words,  which  is 
yet  larger  than  any  tale  that  was  ever  said  or  sung.  Do  you 
know  what  this  must  mean  to  you  and  me?  " 

She  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"  You  love  me,"  she  repeated,  not  questioningly,  but  as 
one  stating  a  fact.  "  Yet  such  love  is  not  for  you  and  me ! 
All  men,  all  circumstances  would  try  to  part  us !  " 

"  But  why?  But  why?  "  he  cried.  "  Ilaria,  I  love  you  with 
a  love  that  must  last  through  life  and  death  and  all  that  lies 
beyond.  So,  since  I  am  what  I  must  be,  I  place  my  life  into 
your  hands  for  good  or  evil." 

He  kissed  her,  then  looked  hungrily  into  her  eyes. 

She  gave  a  wan  smile. 

"  Dear,  do  not  grieve !  "  she  said.  "  I  have  always  loved 
you,  love  you  now  and  think  it  no  shame.  Had  you  consented 
to  become  my  lover,  the  man  I  love  had  died!  What  I  love 
best  in  you,  is  what  held  you  far!  " 

"  Ilaria !  "  he  cried,  loosening  the  horses'  reins,  "  what  is 
there  between  you  and  Stefano  Maconi?  " 

She  breathed  hard,  and  her  face  was  very  pale. 

"  I  too  might  have  found  forgetfulness  where  others  find. 
That  path  was  not  for  me.  Francesco !  "  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  own.  "  Look  in  my  eyes  and  see !  " 

That  night  they  stopped  at  a  wayside  inn,  as  brother  and 

270 


A    LEGEND 

sister,  Francesco  keeping  watch  outside,  while  Ilaria  occupied 
the  only  guest-chamber  of  the  tavern. 

Francesco's  eyes  stayed  with  her  darkly,  sadly,  after  she 
had  gone  inside.  His  tragic  face  seemed  to  look  out  of  the 
Eight  like  the  face  of  one  dead. 

He  had  tethered  their  horses  some  distance  away,  so  that 
the  occasional  tramp  of  their  hoofs  should  fall  muffled  on 
the  air.  The  deeply  caverned  eyes  watching  through  the 
night  seemed  dark  with  a  quiet  destiny.  The  thin,  pale  face, 
white  in  its  meditative  repose,  seemed  fit  to  front  the  ruins 
of  a  stricken  land. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  watched  and  striven,  who 
had  followed  what  he  held  to  be  truth,  like  a  shadow;  who 
had  found  the  light  of  life  in  a  woman's  eyes,  and  saw  that 
light  slowly  go  out  and  vanish  hi  outer  darkness. 

There  was  bitterness  there,  pain,  and  the  ghost  of  a  sad 
desire  that  was  pleading  with  death.  The  face  would  have 
seemed  stern,  but  for  a  certain  something  that  made  its  shad 
ows  kind. 

The  woods  about  him  seemed  to  swim  in  a  mist  of  silver. 

Thus  he  sat  through  the  night.  He  saw  the  moon  go  down 
in  the  west.  Nothing  earthly  could  come  into  the  sad  session 
of  remembrances,  the  vigil  of  a  dead  past.  — 

The  early  dawn  found  them  again  upon  the  road. 

The  evening  of  another  day  descended;  the  green  valleys 
were  full  of  light.  Afar  on  the  hills  the  great  trees  dreamed, 
dome  on  dome,  touching  the  transient  crimson  of  the  west. 
Ilex  and  cedar  stood,  sombre  giants,  in  a  golden,  shimmering 
sea.  The  eastern  slopes  gleamed  in  the  sun,  a  cataract  of 
leaves,  plunging  into  gloom.  The  forests  were  full  of  shadows 
and  mysterious  streams  of  gold,  and  a  great  silence  shrouded 
the  wilderness,  save  for  the  distant  thunder  of  the  streams. 

Whenever  Ilaria  had  grown  tired,  they  had  stopped  in  the 
shelter  of  the  giant  oaks,  and  partaken  of  the  refreshments 

271 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

which  Francesco  had  taken  along.  At  high-noon  they  had 
reached  what  appeared  to  be  a  deserted  castle,  situated  in 
the  midst  of  a  flowery  oasis.  Here  they  had  dismounted  and 
Ilaria  had  found  great  delight  in  roaming  through  the  enchanted 
wilderness,  calling  each  flower  by  its  name  and,  now  and  then, 
referring  to  the  old  rose-garden  at  Avellino,  those  happy  da7s 
of  then-  guileless  youth.  Francesco's  heart  was  heavy  within 
him  as  he  watched  the  girlish  figure,  over  whom  sorrow  iad 
passed  with  so  loving  a  hand,  idealizing  and  etherealizing  her 
great  beauty,  never  dimming  her  sweet  eyes.  Then  he  had 
led  their  steeds  down  to  the  stream,  which  purled  through  the 
underbrush,  and  while  they  drank,  he  had  seated  himself  on 
the  bank  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

As  he  came  from  watering  his  horses  at  the  stream,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  amid  the  vines  and  pome 
granates,  chanting  some  sorrowful  legend  of  lost  love.  Fran 
cesco  had  discovered  a  rough  bridge  across  the  stream,  where 
giant  boulders  seemed  to  have  been  set  as  stepping-stones 
between  the  western  grass-land  and  the  castle.  There  was  a 
narrow  postern  giving  entrance  through  the  walls.  Francesco 
stood  at  the  gate  and  listened.  Above  the  thunder  of  the  foam 
ing  streams  her  voice  seemed  to  rise;  even  the  great  golden 
vault  of  heaven  seemed  full  of  the  echoes  of  her  passionate 
song. 

He  found  Ilaria  seated  on  the  terrace-way,  where  the  olean 
ders  bloomed.  Under  the  stone  bridge  the  water  foamed  and 
purled,  the  ferns  and  the  moss  green  and  brilliant  above  the 
foam.  About  her  rose  the  knolls  of  the  gold-fruited  trees. 
Further  the  forests  climbed  into  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 

She  ceased  her  chanting  as  Francesco  came  to  her  and 
made  room  for  him  on  the  long  bench  of  stone.  There  was  a 
tinge  of  petulance  about  the  red  mouth,  the  pathetic  per- 
verseness  of  a  heart  that  loved  not  by  the  will  of  circumstance. 
Ilaria  was  as  a  woman  deceived  by  dreams.  She  had  loved  a 

272 


A    LEGEND 

dream,  and  since  fate  bowed  not  to  her  desire,  she  turned  her 
back  in  anger  upon  the  world. 

How  Francesco  loved  her,  she  knew  full  well.  Yet  she 
could  not  forget  that  he  had  chosen  the  garb  he  wore  rather 
than  herself.  Her  very  love  for  him  stiffened  her  perverseness 
and  caused  her  to  delight  in  torturing  him. 

Francesco  sat  on  the  stone  seat  and  looked  up  at  her  with 
questioning  gaze.  To  Ilaria  there  was  a  love  therein  such  as 
only  once  comes  into  a  woman's  life,  yet  the  look  troubled  her. 
She  feared  its  appeal,  feared  the  weakening  of  her  own  resolve. 

"  Francesco,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  took  her  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  solemnly  upon  the  face  he 
loved  so  well. 

"  You  will  return  to  Naples?  "  she  queried  with  a  show  of 
indifference. 

"  Naples  is  far  from  me  as  yet,"  he  said  with  bowed  head. 

"  Let  me  not  hinder  you,  —  since  go  you  must."  - 

"  Are  you  so  anxious  to  be  relieved  of  me?  "  he  said 
bitterly. 

"  The  fate  of  Conradino,  —  the  fate  of  our  friends  hang  in 
the  balance." 

"  I  could  not  save  them  single-handed,  though  I  would!  " 

"  Yet  save  them  you  must!    You  must  redeem  your  past,  — 
for  my  sake!    Why  not  part  here,  since  part  we  must?    There 
are  other  claims  upon  my  soul!  " 

"  Raniero  Frangipani  still  lives  —  " 

"  I  shall  never  return  to  him!  " 

He  did  not  answer  her  for  a  moment.  Her  eyes  were 
troubled,  she  looked  as  one  whose  thoughts  were  buffeted  by 
a  strong  wind.  Above  them  the  zenith  mellowed  to  a  deeper 
gold,  and  they  had  the  noise  of  the  waters  in  their  ears. 

"  Ilaria,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  would  you  with  me?  Am 
I  not  pledged  to  guard  your  life,  —  your  honor?  " 

"  Ah,"    she    said,  drooping  her  lashes,  "  I  shall  not  clog 

273 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

your  years !    The  springtime  of  life  has  passed,  —  for  each  of 
us!" 

"  But  not  my  love  for  you !  "  he  cried  fiercely,  with  the  tone 
of  a  man  tortured  by  suspense. 

Ilaria  looked  at  him,  and  she  saw  the  love  upon  his  face,  like 
a  sunset  streaming  through  a  cloud.  She  pitied  him  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  hardened  her  heart  the  more. 

"  I  am  weary  of  the  world,"  she  said. 

"  Weary,  Ilaria?    Are  you  not  free?  " 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"  The  wife  of  Raniero  Frangipani?  " 

"  Have  you  not  broken  the  chains?  " 

"  Mine  the  forging  —  mine  the  suffering,"  she  said,  almost 
with  a  moan.  "  Though  I  have  left  him,  I  am  not  free.  Nor 
are  you !  Though  you  burn  your  garb  —  you  are  forever  a 
monk  —  the  slave  of  Rome !  Who  is  free  in  life?  "  she  added, 
after  a  brief  pause.  "  I  am  fearful  of  the  ruffian  passions  of 
the  world,  —  the  lusts  and  the  terrors,  —  even  love  itself! 
Life  seethes  with  turbulence  and  the  great  throes  of  wrath. 
I  would  be  at  peace,  —  I  have  suffered  —  God,  how  I  have 
suffered! " 

Francesco  rose  up  suddenly,  and  began  to  stride  to  and  fro 
before  her.  He  loved  Ilaria,  he  knew  it  at  this  moment,  with 
all  the  strongest  fibres  of  his  heart.  He  had  hoped  too  much, 
trusted  too  much  to  the  power  of  his  own  faith.  He  turned 
and  faced  her,  there,  outwardly  calm,  miserable  within. 

"  Must  this  thing  be?  "  he  asked  her. 

There  was  such  deep  wistfulness  in  those  words  of  his  that 
she  bent  her  head  and  would  not  look  into  his  face. 

"  Francesco,"  she  said,  "  I  pray  you,  plead  no  further  with 
my  heart.  I  shall  turn  nun,  —  there  is  the  truth." 

"  As  you  will  —  "  he  said,  and  a  cord  seemed  to  snap  in  his 
heart.  "  It  is  not  for  me  to  parley  with  your  soul,  not  for  me 
to  revive  a  past  that  had  best  never  been !  " 

274 


A    LEGEND 

Ilaria's  gaze  seemed  far  away.  Her  eyes,  under  their  dark 
lashes,  seemed  like  spring  viole-ts  hiding  in  shadows. 

There  was  an  infinite  pride,  an  infinite  tenderness  in  the 
wistful  face,  as  she  turned  to  Francesco. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  kindling,  "  why  has  it  been 
decreed  thus?  I  think  my  whole  soul  was  made  for  beauty, 
my  whole  desire  born  for  fair  and  lovely  things.  You  will 
smile  at  me  for  a  dreamer,  —  dreaming  still,  after  the  devas 
tating  storms  of  life  have  spent  themselves  over  my  head,  — 
but  often  my  thoughts  seem  to  fly  through  forests,  marvellous 
green  glooms  all  drowned  hi  moonlight.  I  love  to  hear  the 
wind,  to  watch  the  great  oaks  battling,  to  see  the  sea,  one 
laugh  of  gold.  Now,  every  sunset  harrows  me  into  a  moan  of 
woe.  Yet  I  can  still  sing  to  the  stars  at  night,  songs  such  as 
the  woods  weave  from  the  voice  of  a  gentle  wind,  dew-laden, 
green  and  lovely.  Sometimes  I  feel  faint  for  sheer  love  of  this 
fair  earth." 

Francesco's  eyes  were  on  her  with  a  strange,  deep  look. 
Every  fibre  of  his  being,  every  hidden  instinct  cried  out  in  him 
to  fold  her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  there  forevermore,  safe 
from  the  world,  from  harm.  But,  as  if  she  had  divined  his 
thoughts,  she  drew  away  from  him. 

He  stood  motionless,  with  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  gazing 
upon  the  darkening  windows  of  the  east.  The  sound  of  the 
running  waters  surged  in  his  ears ;  the  colors  and  odors  of  the 
place  seemed  to  faint  into  the  night.  As  for  Ilaria,  she  stared 
immovable  into  space. 

At  last  she  turned  to  Francesco. 

"  And  are  they  all,  —  all  lost?  " 

His  lips  hardened. 

"  All,  save  the  lords  of  Astura." 

Her  face  was  pale  as  death. 

Francesco  took  her  hands  in  his,  bent  over  them  and  kissed 
them  passionately. 

275 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

A  soft  light  shone  in  her  eyes ;  yet  underneath  there  was  that 
inexplicable  perverseness  in  her  heart  that  at  certain  moments 
makes  a  woman  treacherous  to  her  own  desires. 

And  Ilaria,  as  if  to  inflict  a  mortal  wound  on  him  she  loved 
best,  beckoned  her  own  fate  on  with  a  bitterness  that  Fran 
cesco  could  not  fathom. 

"Listen,"  she  said.     "You  will  go  to  Naples, — you  may 

be  of  service  to  the  Swabian  cause,  —  I  must  not  —  I  will  not 

-  detain  you,  —  besides,  —  I  am  weary  of  the  world,  —  I  am 

weary  of  it  all !    Take  me  to  San  Nicandro  by  the  Sea  —  there 

I  shall  strive  to  forget ! " 

Francesco  watched  her,  listening  like  a  man  to  the  reading  of 
his  own  doom.  Ilaria  did  not  look  at  him.  Her  head  was 
bowed  down.  And  as  he  sat  there,  gazing  on  the  face  he  so 
passionately  loved,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  Francesco  could  hardly 
restrain  himself  from  putting  his  arms  about  her  and  holding 
her  close,  close  to  his  heart.  But  an  icy  hand  seemed  to  come 
between  them,  seemed  to  hold  them  apart. 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish !  "  he  said. 

The  west  was  an  open  gate  of  gold.  The  darkening  forests 
were  wreathed  in  veils  of  mist.  The  island  with  the  dark 
foliage  of  its  trees  and  shrubs,  lay  like  some  dusky  emerald 
sewn  on  the  bosom  of  a  sable  robe. 


276 


CHAPTER  II 


MEMORIES 


OW  the  birds  sang  that  evening 
when  the  saffron  afterglow  had 
fainted  over  the  forest  spires, 
and  when  all  was  still  with  the 
hush  of  night,  how  the  cry  of 
a  nightingale  thrilled  from  a  tree 
near  the  cottage! 

The  glamor  of  the  day  had 
passed,  and  now  what  mockery 
and  bitterness  came  with  the 
cold,  unimpassioned  light  of  the  moon !  Ilaria  tossed  and  turned 
on  her  couch  like  one  taken  with  a  fever;  her  brain  seemed 
afire,  her  hair  like  so  much  shadow  about  her  head.  As  she 
lay  staring  with  wide,  wakeful  eyes,  the  birds'  song  mocked 
her  to  the  echo ;  the  scent  of  rose  and  honeysuckle  floated  in 
like  a  sad  savor  of  death,  and  the  moonlight  seemed  to  watch 
her  without  a  quaver  of  pity.  Her  heart  panted  in  the  dark 
ness;  she  was  torn  by  the  thousand  torments  of  a  troubled 
conscience;  wounded  to  tears,  yet  her  eyes  were  dry  and 
waterless  as  a  desert.  Raniero's  face  seemed  to  glare  down 
on  her  out  of  the  dusky  gloom,  and  she  could  have  cried  out 
with  the  fear  that  lay  like  an  icy  hand  over  her  bosom. 

How  her  heart  wailed  for  Francesco;  how  she  longed  for 
the  touch  of  his  hand.  God  of  heaven,  she  could  not  let  him 
go  again  and  starve  her  soul  with  the  old,  cursed  life.  His 
lips  had  touched  hers;  his  arms  had  held  her  close;  she  had 
felt  the  warmth  of  his  body,  and  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
Was  all  this  nothing,  —  a  dream,  a  splendid  phantasm,  to  be 

277 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

rent  away  like  a  crimson  cloud?  Was  she  to  be  Raniero's 
wife  despite  of  all,  a  bitter  flower  growing  up  under  a  gallows? 

God  of  heaven,  no!  What  had  the  world  done  for  her, 
that  she  should  obey  its  edicts,  and  suffer  for  its  tyrannies? 
Raniero  had  cheated  her  of  her  youth,  her  happiness;  let  him 
pay  the  price  to  the  fates!  What  honor,  indeed,  had  she  to 
preserve  for  him?  If  he  was  a  brute  piece  of  lust,  a  tyrant,  a 
traitor,  so  much  the  better!  It  would  ease  her  conscience. 
She  owed  him  no  fealty,  no  marriage  vow !  Her  body  was  no 
more  his  than  was  her  soul,  and  a  dozen  priests  and  a  dozen 
masses  might  as  well  marry  ice  to  fire !  How  could  a  fool  in  a 
cape  and  frock,  by  gabbling  a  service,  bind  an  irresponsible 
woman  to  the  man  she  hated  with  a  hatred  enduring  as  the 
stars?  It  was  a  stupendous  piece  of  nonsense,  to  say  the  least 
of  it.  No  God  calling  himself  a  just  God,  could  hold  such  a 
bargain  holy. 

And  then  the  truth!  What  a  stumbling-block  truth  was  on 
occasions.  She  knew  Francesco's  fine  sensibilities,  and  his 
very  love  for  her  made  him  the  victim  of  an  ethical  tyranny. 
And  again!  For  all  her  passion  and  the  fire  of  her  rebellious 
heart  she  was  not  a  woman  who  could  fling  reason  to  the 
winds  and  stifle  up  her  conscience  with  a  kiss.  Besides,  she 
loved  Francesco  to  the  very  zenith  of  her  soul.  To  have  a 
lie  understood  upon  her  lips,  to  be  shamed  before  the  man's 
eyes,  were  things  that  scourged  her  hi  fancy  even  more  than 
the  thought  of  losing  him.  She  trembled  when  she  thought 
how  he  might  look  at  her  in  the  days  to  come,  if  a  passive  lie 
were  proven  against  her  with  open  shame. 

And  Francesco  was  a  monk !  He  might  break  the  shackles, 
defy  the  powers  of  the  Church,  —  he  was  a  monk  neverthe 
less!  It  might  be  possible  that  his  love  proved  stronger  than 
his  reason;  it  was  possible  that  he  might  face  the  world  and 
frown  down  the  petty  judgments  of  men !  Glorious  and  trans 
cendent  sacrifice!  She  could  face  calumny  beside  him,  as  a 

278 


MEMORIES 

rock  faces  the  froth  of  the  waves,  she  could  look  Raniero  in 
the  eye  and  know  neither  pity  nor  shame. 

Her  mood  that  night  was  like  the  passage  of  a  blown  leaf, 
tossed  up  to  heaven,  whirled  over  the  tree-tops,  driven  down 
again  into  the  mire.  Strong  woman  that  she  was,  her  very 
strength  made  the  struggle  more  indecisive  and  more  racking. 
She  could  not  renounce  Francesco  for  the  great  love  she  bore 
him ;  and  yet  she  could  not  will  to  play  a  false  part  by  reason 
of  this  same  great  love !  Her  soul,  like  a  wanderer  in  the  wilds, 
halted  and  wavered  between  two  tracks  that  led  forward  into 
the  unknown. 

As  she  tossed  and  tossed  and  thought  of  her  life  in  Astura, 
her  face  became  hard  as  stone.  Even  since  they  had  journeyed 
from  Naples,  Ilaria  had  been  conscious  of  a  change.  Her  face 
showed  melancholy,  mingled  with  a  constant  scorn  that  had 
rarely  found  expression  in  the  old  days,  within  the  walls  of 
Avellino.  For  a  time  hope  had  waited  wide-eyed  in  her  heart. 
She  had  conjured  up  love  like  some  Eastern  house  of  magic, 
only  to  see  its  domes  faint  away  into  the  gloom  of  night.  The 
past  was  as  a  wounded  dream  to  her !  Her  eyes  had  hungered 
for  a  face,  grieving  in  dark  reserve  and  silence.  Her  love, 
once  forged,  could  bend  to  no  new  craft. 

After  the  barren  months  at  Astura,  the  long  bondage  of  hate, 
Francesco  had  come  into  her  life  again.  He  had  come  to  her 
with  a  glory  of  love  in  his  eyes,  he  had  taken  her  hands  and 
kissed  them,  as  though  there  were  no  such  divine  flesh  in  the 
whole  wide  world.  How  wonderful  it  was,  to  be  touched  so, 
to  have  such  eyes  pouring  out  so  strong  a  soul  before  her 
face;  to  know  the  presence  of  a  great  love  and  to  feel  the 
echoing  passion  of  it  in  her  own  heart ! 

Was  this  faery  time  but  for  an  hour,  a  day,  and  no  longer? 
Was  she  but  to  see  the  man's  face,  to  feel  the  touch  of  his 
hands,  the  grand  calm  of  his  love,  before  losing  him,  perhaps 
for  life?  Her  heart  fluttered  in  her  like  a  smitten  bird.  Could 

279 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

she  but  creep  to  him,  where  he  lay,  touch  his  hands,  his  lips ! 
Her  eyes  stared  out  in  the  night  with  a  starved  frenzy. 

"  Francesco !     Francesco !  "  - 

It  was  like  the  wild  cry  of  a  woman  over  her  dead  love. 

A  wind  had  arisen.  The  thousand  voices  of  the  trees  seemed 
to  call  to  her  with  a  weird,  perpetual  clamor.  She  saw  their 
spectral  hands  jerking  and  clutching  against  the  sky.  The 
wind  was  crying  through  the  trees,  swaying  them  restlessly 
against  the  starry  sky,  making  plaintive  moan  through  all  the 
myriad  aisles. 

How  many  a  heart  trembles  with  the  return  of  day!  What 
fears  rise  with  the  first  blush  of  light  in  the  purple  bowl  of 
night !  To  Ilaria  the  dawn  would  come  as  a  message  of  misery ; 
she  dared  not  think  what  the  coming  hours  would  bring. 

At  last  she  closed  her  weary  eyes,  and  under  the  sheer 
weight  of  her  own  grief  fell  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  slumber, 
while  the  gloom  was  growing  less  and  less,  and  dawn,  like  a 
pale  phantom,  stalked  out  of  the  east. 


280 


CHAPTER   III 


THE    GRAIL    OF    LOVE 


RANCESCO  was  astir  early  with 
the  coming  of  the  dawn.  The 
grass  was  drenched  with  dew, 
the  woods  towered  heavenwards 
with  a  thousand  golden  peaks. 
In  the  valleys  the  stream  echoed 
back  the  light. 

Francesco  was  very  solemn 
about  the  eyes.  He  looked  as 
one  who  took  little  joy  in  life, 
but  worked  to  forget  and  to  ease  his  heart  of  its  great  pain. 
He  watched  the  sun  climb  over  the  leafy  hills,  saw  the  clouds 
trend  the  heavens,  heard  the  thunder  of  the  streams.  There 
was  life  in  the  day  and  wild  love  hi  the  woods.  Yet  from  this 
world  of  passion  and  delight  he  was  as  an  exile,  rather  a  pil 
grim,  fettered  by  a  heavy  vow.  He  was  to  bear  the  Grail  of 
Love  through  all  these  wilds,  yet  might  never  look  thereon, 
nor  quench  his  thirst. 

He  met  Ilaria  in  the  garden,  took  her  head  between  his 
hands,  and  kissed  her  upon  the  lips.  She  clung  close  to 
him  and  smiled,  yet  her  looks  were  distraught;  she  seemed 
fearful  of  looking  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  saddled  the  horses,"  he  said  laconically. 
She  read  the  heroism  in  his  heart ;  the  bitterness  of  the  faith 
she  compelled  from  him.     The  truth  troubled  and  shamed 
her. 

Francesco  strapped  the  wallet  and  water  flask  to  his  saddle 

281 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

and  lifted  Ilaria  to  her  steed.  Then  they  crossed  the  stream 
and,  riding  northwards,  plunged  into  the  woods. 

All  that  day  Francesco  strove  and  struggled  with  his  youth, 
his  heart  beating  fast  and  loud  under  his  steel-hauberk.  Love 
was  at  his  side,  robed  in  crimson  and  green;  Dana's  hair 
blinded  him  more  than  the  noon-brightness  of  the  sun.  And 
as  for  her  eyes,  he  dared  not  look  therein,  lest  they  should 
tempt  him  to  deceive  his  honor.  The  silence  enfolded  them 
as  though  they  were  half  fearful  of  each  other's  thoughts. 

Francesco  spoke  little,  keeping  his  distance,  as  though  mis 
trusting  his  own  tongue.  As  for  Ilaria,  the  same  passionate 
perverseness  possessed  her  heart,  and,  though  she  pitied 
Francesco,  she  pitied  him  silently  and  from  afar. 

The  following  night  they  lodged  in  a  beech  wood,  where 
dead  leaves  spread  a  dry  carpet  under  the  boughs.  Francesco 
made  a  bed  of  leaves  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree.  He  spread  a 
cloak  underneath  for  Ilaria's  comfort,  then  started  away,  as 
though  to  increase  the  distance  between  them. 

"  Francesco!  "  she  cried  suddenly,  looking  slantwise'at  his 
face. 

He  turned  and  stood  waiting. 

"  You  have  given  me  your  cloak!  " 

"  It  will  keep  the  chill  air  from  you !  " 

"What  of  yourself?" 

"  I  shall  not  need  it!  "  he  said.  "  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night. 
I  will  keep  watch  and  guard  you !  Have  no  fear!  " 

She  sighed  and  hung  her  head  as  she  sat  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree.  Francesco's  deep  and  unselfish  love  shamed  her 
more  and  more.  Yet  his  very  patience  with  her  hardened  her 
discontent.  Had  he  rebelled  and  conquered  her  against  her 
will,  she  would  have  followed  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Francesco,  with  a  last  look,  left  her  there  and  strode  away 
to  a  point  where  he  might  see,  though  not  speak  to  her.  A 
full  moon  climbed  in  the  east  and  the  wide  lands  were  smitten 

282 


THE    GRAIL    OF    LOVE 

with  her  mystery.  The  valleys  were  as  lakes  of  glimmering 
mist,  the  hills  like  icy  pinnacles  gleaming  towards  the  stars. 
The  forest  glades  were  white  under  the  moon;  the  trees  tall, 
sculptured  obelisks,  their  trunks  as  of  ebony  inlaid  with  pearl 
wherever  the  moonlight  splashed  the  bark.  The  silence  of 
the  wilderness  was  as  the  silence  of  a  windless  sea. 

Francesco  wandered  hi  the  woods,  his  heart  full  of  the 
strange,  haunting  beauty  of  the  autumnal  night.  The  stars 
spoke  to  hkn  of  Ilaria;  the  trees  had  her  name  unuttered  on 
their  lips.  What  was  this  woman  that  she  should  bring  such 
bitterness  into  his  life?  Were  there  not  others  in  the  world 
as  fair  as  she,  with  lips  as  red  and  eyes  as  deep?  Strangeness 
—  mystery !  She  was  one  with  the  moon ;  a  goddess  shrined 
in  the  gloom  of  forests  dun.  White  and  immaculate,  beauti 
fully  strange,  she  seemed  as  an  elf  child  fated  to  doom  men 
to  despair,  to  their  own  undoing.  — 

Francesco  passed  back  and  found  her  asleep  under  the 
trees.  He  stood  beside  her  and  gazed  on  the  sleeping  face. 
There  was  silent  faith  in  that  slumber;  trust  in  the  man  who 
guarded  her  honor.  The  moonlight  streamed  on  the  upturned 
face,  shining  like  ivory  amid  the  gleam  of  her  dusky  hair.  How 
white  her  throat  was,  how  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  the 
soft  white  hands  folded  thereon. 

A  sudden  warmth  flooded  Francesco's  heart;  and  youth 
cried  hi  him  for  youth.  Should  this  beauty  be  mured  in  stone, 
this  red  rose  be  hid  by  convent  trees?  Was  she  not  flesh  and 
blood,  born  to  love  and  to  be  loved  in  turn,  —  and  what  was 
life  but  love  and  desire? 

He  crept  near  on  his  knees,  hung  over  her  breathlessly, 
gazing  on  her  face.  God,  but  to  wake  her  with  one  long  kiss, 
to  feel  those  white  arms  steal  around  his  neck!  They  were 
alone,  the  two  of  them,  under  the  stars.  For  many  minutes 
Francesco  hung  there  like  a  man  tottering  on  a  crag  betwixt 
sea  and  sky.  Passion  whimpered  in  him;  his  heart  beat 

283 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

fast.  Yet  even  as  he  crouched  over  Ilaria  asleep,  some  dream 
or  vision  seemed  to  trouble  her  soul.  Her  hands  stirred; 
her  lids  quivered;  the  breath  came  fast  betwixt  her  lips.  A 
shadow  as  of  pain  passed  over  the  moonlit  face.  Francesco, 
kneeling  motionless,  heard  her  utter  a  low  name,  saw  tears 
glistening  on  her  cheeks;  she  was  weeping  in  her  sleep. 

Pity,  the  strong  tenderness  of  his  nobler  self,  his  great  love 
for  the  girl  of  his  youth,  rushed  back  into  the  deeps  as  a  wave 
from  a  cliff.  He  rose  up;  the  shadows  flying  from  his  heart 
as  bats  afraid  of  their  own  flight.  He  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  - 

On  the  following  evening  they  saw  the  sea,  a  wild  streak 
of  troubled  gold  under  the  kindling  cressets  of  the  west. 
Beneath  them  lay  a  valley  full  of  tangled  shrubs  and  windworn 
trees.  Westward  rose  a  great  rock,  thrusting  its  huge  black 
bastions  out  into  the  sea.  Upon  this  rock  rose  the  towers  and 
pinnacles  of  San  Nicandro,  smitten  with  gold,  wrapped  in 
mysterious  vapor.  Into  the  east  stretched  a  wilderness  of 
woods,  dim  and  desolate,  welcoming  the  night. 

Francesco  and  Ilaria  rode  out  from  the  woods  towards  the 
sea,  while  in  the  west  the  sun  sank  into  a  bank  of  burning 
clouds.  The  trees  were  wondrous  green  in  the  slant  light; 
the  whole  land  seemed  bathed  in  strange,  ethereal  glory. 
San  Nicandro  upon  its  headland  stood  like  black  marble  above 
the  far  glimmerings  of  the  sea. 

Francesco  rode  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  burning  clouds. 
Ilaria  was  watching  him  with  strange  unrest.  Since  that  first 
night  in  the  woods  he  had  held  aloof  from  her,  had  spoken  little, 
had  wrapped  himself  in  his  iron  pride.  Yet  at  times,  when 
his  eyes  had  unwittingly  met  hers,  she  had  seen  the  sudden 
gleam  therein  of  a  strong  desire.  She  had  watched  the  color 
rise  in  Francesco's  sunburnt  face;  the  deep-drawn  sighs  that 
ebbed  and  flowed  under  the  steel  hauberk.  Though  his  mouth 
was  as  granite,  though  he  hid  his  heart  from  her,  she  knew 

284 


THE    GRAIL    OF    LOVE 

full  well  that  he  loved  her  to  the  death.  The  fine  temper  of 
his  faith  had  humiliated,  even  angered  her.  Though  his  silent 
despair  defied  her  vanity  with  heroic  silence,  his  courage  made 
her  miserable  from  sheer  sympathy  and  shame. 

They  crossed  a  small  stream  and  came  to  a  sandy  region, 
where  stunted  myrtles  clambered  over  the  rocks,  and  tama 
risks,  tipped  as  with  flame,  waved  in  the  wind.  Storm-buffeted 
and  dishevelled  pines  stood  gathered  upon  the  hillock.  The 
region  was  sombre  and  very  desolate ;  silent,  save  for  the  low 
piping  of  the  wind. 

Neither  Francesco  nor  Ilaria  had  spoken  since  they  had  left 
the  woods  and  sighted  San  Nicandro  upon  its  rocky  height. 
Suddenly  he  pointed  with  his  hands  towards  the  cliffs,  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  streaming  upon  his  white  and  solemn 
face. 

"  Yonder  lies  San  Nicandro,"  he  said  to  her. 

There  was  a  species  of  defiance  in  the  cry,  as  though  the 
man's  soul  challenged  fate.  His  heart's  cords  were  wrung 
with  misery.  Ilaria  quailed  inwardly,  like  one  ashamed;  her 
lips  quivered;  her  eyes  for  the  nonce  were  in  peril  of  tears.  — 

"  Yonder  lies  San  Nicandro,"  she  echoed  in  an  undertone. 
"  There  I  may  be  at  peace.  I  shall  not  forget  —  " 

"  Nor  I,"  he  said,  with  grim  emphasis. 

A  narrow  causeway  curled  upwards  towards  the  tower  on 
the  rock.  The  sea  had  sunk  behind  the  cliff,  the  sky  had  faded 
to  a  misty  gray.  Ilaria' s  eyes  were  on  the  walls  of  San  Nican 
dro  and  she  seemed  lost  in  musings  as  they  rode  side  by 
side. 

"  Francesco,"  she  said  suddenly,  as  they  neared  the  sea, 
"think  not  hard  of  me!  Strife  and  unrest  are  everywhere. 
It  is  better  to  escape  the  world !  " 

"  Better  perhaps,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  clouds. 

"  Forget  that  there  is  such  a  woman  as  Ilaria,"  she  said. 
"  I,  too,  shall  strive  to  forget  the  past."  - 

285 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

"  Who  can  forget?  "  he  muttered.  "  While  life  lasts,  mem 
ory  lives  on !  " 

They  had  come  to  the  causeway,  where  the  track  wound 
like  a  black  snake  towards  the  golden  heights.  Not  a  sound 
was  there  save  the  distant  surging  of  the  sea.  The  distorted 
trees  thrust  out  their  hands  and  seemed  to  cry  an  eternal 
"  Vale  "  to  the  two  upon  the  road. 

At  the  foot  of  the  causeway,  Francesco  turned  his  horse. 

"  Go  in  peace !  "  he  said,  his  voice  vibrating  with  inward 
emotion,  her  image  haunting  his  heart,  like  a  fell  dream  at 
night. 

She  stretched  out  a  hand. 

"  Francesco  —  you  will  not  leave  me  yet?  " 

"  Ah!  "  he  cried  with  sudden  great  bitterness,  "  is  it  so  easy 
to  say  farewell?  " 

His  strong  despair  swept  over  her  like  a  wind.  She  sat  mute 
and  motionless  upon  her  horse,  gazing  at  him  helplessly  as  one 
half  dazed.  On  the  cliffs  above,  San  Nicandro  beckoned  with 
the  great  cross  above  its  topmost  pinnacle. 

Ilaria  shivered,  struggled  with  herself,  perverse  as  of  yore. 

"  What  am  I,  that  you  should  desire  me?  "  she  said.  "  I 
have  but  little  beauty,  and  am  growing  old.  Leave  me,  Fran 
cesco,  and  forget  me!  Forget  and  forgive!  I  have  no  heart 
to  struggle  with  the  world !  " 

Francesco  was  white  to  the  lips,  as  he  stiffened  his  manhood 
to  meet  the  wrench. 

"  God  knows  how  I  have  loved  you,  —  how  I  love  you 
still!" 

"  Francesco,"  she  said,  leaning  towards  him  from  the  saddle. 

He  gave  a  hoarse  cry  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  For  pity's  sake,"  he  said,  "  say  no  more  to  me !  It  is 
enough! "  — 

They  had  reached  the  gate. 

He  pricked  his  horse  with  his  spurs,  wheeled  from  her  and 

286 


THE    GRAIL    OF    LOVE 

dashed  down  the  road  without  a  look.  His  face  was  as  the  face 
of  a  man  who  rode  to  meet  his  death. 

"  Francesco!  "  she  cried  to  him,  as  she  saw  him  plunge  to 
a  gallop,  saw  the  shield  between  his  shoulders  dwindle  into 
the  night. 

"Francesco!  "  she  cried  again,  a  sudden  loneliness  seizing 
on  her  heart.  "Francesco,  come  back!  Francesco  —  " 

The  cry  was  in  vain,  for  he  would  not  listen,  deeming 
her  pity  more  grievous  than  her  scorn.  Despair  spurred  him 
on;  the  black  night  called. 

Ilaria  watched  him  vanish  into  the  increasing  gloom,  while 
on  the  cliffs  San  Nicandro  stood,  like  the  great  gate  of  death. 


287 


CHAPTER  IV 


DEAD   LEAVES 

HROUGH  bleak  and  desolate 
stretches  Francesco  spurred  his 
steed,  as  if  to  outstrip  his  mas 
tering  agony. 

Ilaria  had  gone  from  him. 
Nothing  mattered  any  longer. 
He  had  no  longer  the  sense  that 
there  could  be  duty  for  him. 
Even  in  his  wish  for  freedom 
there  was  cowardice;  his  soul 
cried  out  for  rest,  for  peace  from  the  enemy;  peace,  not  this 
endless  striving.  He  was  terrified.  In  the  ignominious  lament 
there  was  desertion,  as  if  he  were  too  small  for  the  fight.  He 
was  demanding  happiness,  and  that  his  own  burden  should 
rest  on  other  shoulders.  To  his  demand  Fate  had  cried  its 
unrelenting  No.  How  silent  was  the  universe  about  him !  He 
stood  in  sheer  and  tremendous  eternal  isolation. 

Ruin  was  everywhere,  black,  saturnine,  solemn.  The 
flames  of  Ninfa  in  the  Pontine  marshes,  of  distant  Alba  dyed 
the  night  crimson,  while  Norba,  the  papal  robber-nest  on  the 
ragged  crest  of  the  Lepinian  mountain,  bristled  behind  her 
cyclopean  walls.  The  Provencals  had  been  here,  —  the  Pon 
tiff's  champion.  A  strange  silence  encompassed  the  world. 
The  wind  had  passed.  The  storm  blasts  moaned  no  more. 

Ever  to  southward  Francesco  held  his  course,  towards  the 
mountain  fastnesses,  which  harbored  the  Duke  of  Spoleto. 

288 


DEAD    LEAVES 

To  him  he  would  open  his  heart,  enlist  his  services  in  the 
cause  of  Conradino  and  his  friends.  Himself  he  would  join 
the  ranks  of  the  discarded,  for,  to  his  life,  there  was  but  one 
purpose  now,  and  that  accomplished,  he  would  go  whence 
none  might  bid  him  return. 

As  Francesco  rode  through  the  darkening  woods,  through 
the  desolate  stretches,  he  bowed  his  head  and  was  heavy  of 
heart.  The  bleak  trees  along  the  storm-swept  sea  were  out 
lined  against  the  deeper  gold  of  a  memory,  a  melancholy  after 
glow,  weird  yet  tender.  Childhood  and  youth  came  back 
once  again;  liana's  sweet  eyes  and  the  dusky  sheen  of  her 
hair. 

Ilaria !    Ilaria ! 

For  the  nonce  he  forgot  the  grim,  grinding  present,  forgot 
the  tens  and  thousands,  who  had  been  here,  had  laid  waste 
the  land,  driving  clouds  of  dust  from  the  ashes  under  their 
horses'  feet. 

As  night  came  on  apace,  the  full  moon  hung  tangled  in  a 
knot  of  pines.  The  turrets  and  bastions  of  Norba  stood  black 
against  the  shimmer  of  the  night. 

Drawing  rein  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  he  saw  a  river  gleaming 
below  in  the  valley,  shining  like  silver  set  in  ebony,  as  it  coursed 
through  the  blackened  country.  He  hardly  knew  the  region, 
so  great  was  the  havoc  and  desolation  wrought  by  Anjou. 

His  eyes  roved  over  the  desolate  stretches,  the  sepulchral 
trees,  the  sun-scorched  grass.  Francesco  seemed  as  one 
dizzy,  his  face  the  face  of  a  starved  ascetic.  His  eye  strained 
towards  the  towering  crags  where  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  held 
solitary  court.  The  light  of  the  moon  still  wavered  through 
the  gloom.  To  the  north  rose  the  dome  of  the  great  pine-forests, 
and  into  the  opaque  darkness  of  the  giant-firs  Francesco 
spurred  his  steed. 

Onward  he  rode  as  a  man  who  has  battled  at  night  through 
a  stormy  sea.  And  ever  as  he  rode  his  heart  hungered  for 

289 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

Ilaria,  for  that  dusky  head  bowed  down  beneath  the  pathos  of 
the  past.  He  remembered  her  in  a  hundred  scenes;  her 
deep  eyes  haunted  him,  her  rich  voice  pealed  through  the 
silent  avenues  of  his  thoughts.  And  while  his  lips  moved  in 
silent  prayer  that  he  might  again  look  upon  Ilaria's  face,  a 
dreary  hopelessness  bowed  him  down  with  the  certainty  that 
on  earth  they  should  meet  no  more. 

The  moon  had  risen  higher,  and  the  forests  spread  their 
green  canopies  against  her  silver  disk. 

Francesco  shook  himself  free  from  the  benumbing  agony 
of  his  heart.  A  firm  resolution  was  burning  in  his  eyes;  his 
very  soul  seemed  enhaloed  about  his  face,  as  he  rode  at  break 
neck  speed  through  the  silent  forest-aisles.  He  was  guided 
by  the  shadowy  contours  of  the  distant  hills,  for  he  had  noted 
their  shapes  on  that  summer  day,  when  he  journeyed  from 
Viterbo  into  Terra  di  Lavoro.  To  the  west  gaunt  crags  rose 
above  the  trees,  towering  pinnacles,  huge  and  grim,  natural 
obelisks  cleaving  the  blue.  It  was  past  midnight  when  he  saw 
water  glimmering  in  a  blackened  hollow.  The  moon  went 
down  and  the  light  went  out  of  the  world.  Francesco  tethered 
his  steed  to  one  of  the  giants  of  the  forest  and  slept  till  the  east 
was  forging  a  new  day  in  its  furnace  of  gold. 

The  gray  mists  of  the  hour  before  dawn  made  the  forests 
gaunt  like  an  abode  of  the  dead.  Francesco  opened  his  eyes, 
heard  the  birds  wake  in  brake  and  thicket.  He  saw  the  red 
deer  scamper,  frightened,  into  the  glooms,  and  the  rabbits 
scurrying  among  the  bracken. 

The  face  of  the  sky  grew  gray  with  waking  light,  and  the  hold 
of  the  stars  and  of  night  relaxed  on  wood  and  meadow.  The 
gaunt  trees  stood  without  a  rustling  leaf  in  a  stupor  of  silence. 
A  vast  hush  held,  as  if  the  world  knelt  at  orisons.  Soon  ripple 
on  ripple  of  light  surged  from  the  hymning  east.  About  him 
rose  the  slopes  of  a  valley,  set  tier  upon  tier  with  trees,  nebu 
lous,  silent,  in  the  hurrying  light. 

290 


DEAD    LEAVES 

His  feet  weighted  with  the  shackles  of  an  impotent  fear, 
Francesco  remounted  his  steed.  About  him  the  flowers  were 
thick  as  on  some  rich  tapestry;  the  scent  of  the  dawn  was  as 
the  incense  of  many  temples.  As  he  rode,  his  steed  shook 
showers  of  dew  from  the  feathery  turf.  Foxgloves  rose  like 
purple  rods  amid  the  snow  webs  of  the  wild  daisy.  Tangled 
domes  of  dog-rose  and  honeysuckle  lined  the  blurred  track, 
and  there  were  countless  harebells  lying  like  a  deep  blue 
haze  under  the  green  shadows  of  the  grass. 

Francesco  had  ridden  for  some  hours  and  a  craving  for  food 
began  to  assert  itself.  He  had  not  touched  a  morsel  since 
he  had  left  Ilaria,  and  now  he  began  to  look  about  for  some 
wayside  tavern,  the  hut  of  a  charcoal  burner  or  some  other 
evidence  of  human  life.  He  began  to  fear  that  he  had  gone 
astray  in  the  dusk  of  the  forests,  for  not  a  sign  did  he  en 
counter  pointing  to  the  camp  of  the  duke. 

A  voice,  coming  from  somewhere,  caused  him  suddenly 
to  start  and  rein  in  his  steed  with  a  jerk.  The  animal  snorted, 
as  if  it  scented  danger,  and  Francesco  loosened  the  sword  in 
the  scabbard  anticipating  an  ambush,  when  he  pushed  it  back 
with  a  puzzled  look.  Before  a  wayside  shrine,  almost  entirely 
concealed  by  weeds,  there  knelt  a  grotesque  figure  at  orisons. 
He  either  had  not  heard  the  tramp  of  Francesco's  steed,  or 
ignored  it  on  purpose,  for  not  until  the  latter  called  to  him  did 
he  turn,  and  with  much  relief  Francesco  recognized  his  former 
guide  from  the  camp  of  the  Duke  of  Spoleto. 

"  Where  is  the  camp  of  the  duke?  "  he  queried  curtly,  im 
patient  with  the  man's  exhibition  of  secular  godliness. 

"  Many  miles  away,"  replied  he  of  the  goafs-beard,  as  he 
arose  and  kissed  a  little  holly-wood  cross  that  he  carried. 

"Lead  me  to  it!" 

The  godly  little  man  flopped  again,  scraped  some  dust  to 
gether  with  his  two  hands,  spat  upon  it,  then  smeared  his 
forehead  with  the  stuff,  uttering  the  names  of  sundry  saints. 

291 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Francesco  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  patience. 

"  Get  up,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  we  have  had  enough  pray 
ing  for  one  day!  " 

The  goatherd  offered  to  anoint  him  with  dust  and  spittle, 
pointing  a  stumpy  forefinger,  but  Francesco  was  filled  with 
disgust.  He  caught  the  man  by  the  girdle  and  lifted  him  to 
his  feet. 

"  Enough  of  this !  "  he  said.  "  Is  the  devil  so  much  your 
master?  " 

The  goatherd  blinked  red-lidded  and  pious  eyes,  while  he 
scanned  the  horizon.  Then  he  pointed  with  his  holly  staff  to  a 
blue  hill  that  rose  against  the  eastern  sky. 

"  How  far?  "  queried  Francesco. 

The  goatherd  was  anointing  himself  with  spittle. 

"  Each  mile  in  these  parts  grows  more  evil,"  he  said,  tracing 
the  sign  of  the  cross.  "  It  behooves  a  Christian  to  be  circum 
spect!  " 

Francesco  prodded  him  with  his  scabbard. 

"  How  far?  " 

"  Some  ten  leagues,"  replied  the  gnome.  "  The  day  is 
clear,  and  the  place  looks  nearer  than  it  is ! " 

It  occurred  to  Francesco  that  there  must  be  some  human 
abode  close  by,  as  the  goatherd,  entirely  familiar  with  the 
region,  would  not  wander  too  far  from  habitations  of  the  living. 
And  upon  having  made  known  his  request,  the  little  man  pre 
ceded  him  at  a  lively  pace.  At  a  lodge  in  the  forest  deeps  they 
halted,  and  here  Francesco  and  his  guide  rested  during  the 
hot  hours  of  noon,  partaking  of  such  food  as  the  liberality  of 
their  host,  an  old  anchorite,  set  before  them. 

After  men  and  steed  had  rested,  they  set  out  anew. 

The  goatherd's  inclination  to  invoke  untold  saints,  when 
ever  there  seemed  occasion  and  whenever  there  was  not, 
was  curbed  by  a  hard  line  round  Francesco's  lips,  and  they 
plunged  into  the  great  silence.  A  sense  of  green  mystery 

292 


DEAD    LEAVES 

encompassed  them,  as  they  traversed  the  green  forest-aisles. 
The  sky  seemed  to  have  receded  to  a  greater  distance.  Every 
where  the  smooth  dark  trunks  converged  upon  one  another, 
sending  up  a  tangle  of  boughs  that  glittered  in  the  soft  sheen 
of  the  sunlight.  Withered  bracken  stood  in  thin  silence,  and 
here  and  there  a  dead  bough  lay  like  a  snake  with  its  head 
raised  to  strike. 

The  silence  was  immense,  and  yet  it  was  a  stillness  that 
suggested  sounds.  It  resembled  the  silence  of  a  huge  cavern, 
out  of  which  came  strange  whisperings;  innumerable  crepi 
tations  seemed  to  come  from  the  dead  leaves.  Francesco  fan 
cied  he  could  hear  the  trees  breathing,  and  from  afar  he  caught 
the  wild  note  of  a  bird. 

The  sun  was  low  when  they  came  at  last  to  the  edge  of  the 
forest  and  saw  a  hill  rise  steeply  against  the  sky.  It  was  cov 
ered  with  silver  birches,  whose  stems  looked  like  white  threads 
in  the  level  light  of  the  setting  sun.  And  rising  against  the 
sky-line  from  amidst  the  fretwork  of  birch-boughs  Fran 
cesco  saw  the  well-remembered  outlines  of  the  ruined  tower 
wherein  he  had  spent  a  memorable  night. 

The  valley  before  them  was  flooded  with  golden  light,  and, 
as  they  crossed  it,  Francesco  felt  a  curious  desire  for  physical 
pain,  something  fierce  and  tangible  to  struggle  with,  to  drown 
the  ever-pulsing  memory  of  the  woman  who  had  gone  from 
him. 

As  the  dusk  deepened  they  went  scrambling  up  the  hillside 
amid  the  birches,  whose  white  stems  glimmered  upwards  into 
the  blue  gloom  of  the  twilight.  Francesco's  thoughts  climbed 
ahead  of  him,  hurrying  to  deal  with  the  unknown  dangers  that 
might  be  awaiting  him.  He  had  to  dismount,  pull  his  steed 
after  him;  but  the  scramble  upwards  gave  him  the  sense  of 
effort  and  struggle  that  he  needed.  It  was  like  scaling  a 
wall  to  come  to  grips  with  an  enemy,  whose  wild  eyes  and 
sword-points  showed  between  the  crenelations. 

293 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

At  last  they  had  reached  the  high  plateau.  A  dog  barked. 
The  wood  suddenly  swarmed  with  bearded  and  grotesque 
forms.  They  did  not  recognize  in  Francesco  the  monk  who 
had  spent  a  night  in  their  midst.  The  goatherd  had  mali 
ciously  disappeared,  as  if  to  revenge  himself  for  his  interrupted 
orisons.  With  glowering  faces  they  thronged  around  Fran 
cesco,  a  babel  of  voices  shouting  questions  and  threatening 
the  intruder. 

He  waved  them  contemptuously  aside,  and  his  demeanor 
seemed  to  raise  him  hi  their  regards. 

At  his  request  to  be  forthwith  conducted  into  the  presence 
of  the  duke,  one  pointed  to  a  low  building  at  the  edge  of  the 
plateau.  Wisps  of  smoke  curled  out  of  it  and  vanished  into 
the  night. 

"  The  duke  and  the  Abbot  are  at  orisons,"  the  man  said 
with  a  grimace,  the  meaning  of  which  was  lost  upon  Francesco. 
"  He  will  not  return  before  midnight." 

"  I  will  await  him  here,"  said  the  newcomer,  dismounting 
and  leading  his  steed  to  a  small  plot  of  pasture,  where  the  grass 
was  tall  and  untrodden.  Then,  spent  as  he  was,  he  requested 
food  and  drink,  and  as  he  joined  the  band  of  outlaws,  listening 
to  their  jokes  and  banter,  he  thought  he  could  discern  among 
them  many  a  one  whom  Fate  had,  like  himself,  buffeted  into  a 
life,  not  of  his  forming,  not  of  his  choice. 


294 


CHAPTER  V 


THE    ABBEY   OF   FARFA 


HE  great  vaults  of  the  Abbey  of 
Farfa  resounded  with  glee  and 
merriment. 

Before  a  low,  massive  stone 
table,  resembling  a  druidical 
altar,  surrounded  by  giant  casks 
filled  with  the  choicest  wines 
of  Italy,  Greece  and  Spain,  there 
sat  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  and  the 
Abbot  Hilarius,  discoursing 
largely  upon  the  vanities  of  the  world,  and  touching  incidentally 
upon  questions  pertaining  to  the  welfare  of  Church  and  State. 
A  single  cresset  shed  an  unsteady  light  over  the  twain,  while 
a  lean,  cadaverous  friar  glided  noiselessly  in  and  out  the 
transepts,  obsequiously  replenishing  the  beverage  as  it  dis 
appeared  with  astounding  swiftness  in  the  feasters'  capa 
cious  stomachs.  And  each  time  he  replenished  the  vessels, 
he  refilled  his  own  with  grim  impartiality,  watching  the  Abbot 
and  his  guest  from  a  low  settle  in  a  dark  recess. 

The  vault  was  of  singular  construction  and  considerable 
extent.  The  roof  was  of  solid  stone  masonry  and  rose  in  a  wide 
semicircular  arch  to  the  height  of  about  twelve  feet,  measured 
from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  to  the  ground  floor. 

The  transepts   were   divided  by  obtusely  pointed  arches, 

resting  on  slender  granite  pillars,  and  the  intervening  space 

was  filled  up  with  drinking  vessels  of  every  conceivable  shape 

and  size. 

The  Abbot  of  Farfa  was  a  discriminating  drinker,  boasting 

295 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

of  an  ancestral  thirst  of  uncommonly  high  degree,  the  legacy 
of  a  Teutonic  ancestor  who  had  served  the  Church  with  much 
credit  in  his  time. 

They  had  been  carousing  since  sunset. 

The  spectral  custodian  had  refilled  the  tankards  with  amber 
liquid.    Thereof  the  Abbot  sipped  understandingly. 

"  Lacrymae  Christi,"  he  turned  to  the  duke.     "  Vestrae 
salubritati  bibo ! " 

The  duke  raised  his  goblet. 

"  Waes  Hael!"  and  he  drained  its  contents  with  a  huge 
gulp. 

"  I  would  chant  twenty  psalms  for  that  beverage,"  he  mused 
after  a  while. 

The  Abbot  suggested  "  Attendite  Populi!  "  —  "  It  is  one  of 
the  longest,"  he  said,  with  meaning. 

"  Don't  trifle  with  a  thirsty  belly,"  growled  the  duke.    "  In 
these  troublous  times  it  behooves  men  to  be  circumspect !  " 

"  Probatum  est,"  said  the  Abbot.    "  It  is  a  noble  vocation! 
Jubilate  Deo!" 

And  he  raised  his  goblet. 

The  Duke  of  Spoleto  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  It  is  a  Vigil  of  the  Church!  " 

The  Abbot  gave  himself  absolution  on  account  of  the  great 
company. 

"There's  no  fast  on  the  drink!"  he  said  with  meaning. 
"Nor  is  there  better  wine  between  here  and  Salamanca!" 

The  duke  regarded  his  host  out  of  half-shut  watery  eyes. 

"  My  own  choice  is  Chianti !  " 

"  A  difference  of  five  years  in  purgatory !  " 

Thereupon  the  duke  blew  the  froth  of  his  wine  in  the  Ab 
bot's  face. 

"  Purgatory !  —  A  mere  figure  of  speech !  " 

The  Abbot  emptied  his  tankard. 

"  The  figures  of  speech  are  the  pillars  of  the  Church!  " 

296 


THE    ABBEY    OF    FARFA 

He  beckoned  to  the  custodian. 

"  Poculum  alterum  imple !  " 

The  lean  friar  came  and  disappeared  noiselessly. 

They  drank  for  a  time  in  heavy  silence.  After  a  time  the 
Abbot  sneezed,  which  caused  Beelzebub,  the  Abbot's  black 
he-goat,  who  had  been  browsing  outside,  to  peer  through  the 
crescent-shaped  aperture  in  the  casement  and  regard  him 
quizzically. 

The  duke,  who  chanced  to  look  up  at  that  precise  moment, 
saw  the  red  inflamed  eyes  of  the  Abbot's  tutelar  genius,  and, 
mistaking  the  goat  for  another  presence,  turned  to  his  host. 

"  Do  you  not  fear,"  he  whispered,  "  lest  Satan  may  pay  you 
a  visit  during  some  of  your  uncanonical  pastimes?  " 

"  Uncanonical !  "  roared  the  Abbot.  "I  scorn  the  charge! 
I  scorn  it  with  my  heels !  Two  masses  daily,  —  morning  and 
evening  —  Primes,  —  Nones,  —  Vespers,  —  Aves,  —  Credos, 
-  Paters  —  " 

"  Excepting  on  moonlight  nights,"  the  duke  blinked. 

"  Exceptis  excipiendis,"  replied  the  Abbot. 

"Sheer  heresy!"  roared  the  duke.  "The  devil  is  apt  to 
keep  an  eye  on  such  exceptions.  Does  he  not  go  about  like  a 
roaring  lion?  " 

"  Let  him  roar!  "  shouted  the  Abbot,  bringing  his  fist  down 
upon  the  table,  and  looking  about  in  canonical  ire,  when  the 
door  opened  noiselessly  and  in  its  dark  frame  stood  Fran 
cesco. 

He  had  waited  at  the  camp  for  the  return  of  the  duke  until 
his  misery  and  restlessness  had  mastered  every  other  sensa 
tion.  Sleep,  he  felt,  would  not  come  to  his  eyes,  and  he  craved 
for  action.  He  should  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  mount 
his  steed  on  the  spot,  ride  single-handed  into  Anjou's  camp 
and  redeem  his  honor  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  regarded  him  a 
bought  instrument  of  the  Church.  The  memory  of  Ilaria 
wailed  through  the  dark  chambers  of  his  heart.  He  felt  at 

297 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

this  moment,  more  than  ever,  what  she  had  been  to  him,  and 
to  himself  he  appeared  as  a  derelict,  tossed  on  a  vast  and  shore 
less  sea. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  as  one  spellbound  at  the  drinkers, 
then  he  strode  up  to  the  duke  and  shook  him  soundly. 

"  To  the  rescue,  my  lord  duke !  "  he  shouted,  in  the  excess 
of  his  frenzy,  till  the  vaults  re-echoed  his  cry  from  their  far 
thest  recesses.  "  Conradino  has  been  betrayed  by  the  Frangi- 
pani!" 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  he  hated  above  all  on  earth,  the 
duke's  nebulous  haze  fell  from  him  like  a  mantle. 

With  a  great  oath  he  arose. 

"  Where  is  the  King?  " 

"  They  have  taken  him  to  Rome,  —  or  Naples,  —  or  to 
some  fortress  near  the  coast,"  Francesco  replied. 

"  Into  whose  hands  was  he  delivered?  " 

"  Anjou's  admiral,  —  Robert  of  Lavenna!  " 

The  duke  paused  a  moment,  as  if  endeavoring  to  bring  order 
into  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts.  He  scanned  Francesco  from 
head  to  toe,  as  if  there  was  something  about  the  latter's  per 
sonality  which  he  could  not  reconcile  with  his  previous  ac 
quaintance. 

At  last  Francesco's  worldly  habit  flashed  upon  him. 

"  What  of  the  Cross?  "  he  flashed  abruptly. 

"  There  is  blood  upon  it!  "  retorted  Francesco. 

"  All  is  blood  in  these  days,"  the  duke  said  musingly.  "  Are 
you  with  us?  "  - 

"  I  have  broken  the  rosary !  "  - 

The  duke  extended  his  broad  hand,  in  which  Francesco's 
almost  disappeared  as  he  closed  upon  it. 

There  was  a  great  wrath  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  ride  at  sun-rise !  " 

"  Our  goal?  "  - 

"To  Naples!  "- 

298 


THE    ABBEY    OF    FARFA 

The  dawn  was  streaking  the  east  with  faint  gold,  and  tran 
sient  sunshafts  touched  the  woods,  when  Francesco  stood 
before  the  doorway  of  his  lodge  of  pine  boughs.  The  men  of 
the  Duke  of  Spoleto  were  gathering  in  on  every  side,  some 
girding  their  swords,  others  tightening  their  shield-straps, 
as  they  came. 

The  duke  ordered  a  single  horn  to  sound  the  rally. 

The  glade  was  full  of  stir  and  action.  Companies  were 
forming  up,  shoulder  to  shoulder ;  spears  danced  and  swayed ; 
horses  steamed  in  the  brisk  morning  air. 

At  last  the  tents  sank  down,  and,  as  the  sun  cleared  the 
trees,  the  armed  array  rolled  out  from  the  woods  into  a  stretch 
of  open  land,  that  sloped  towards  the  bold  curves  of  a  river. 

On  that  morning  Francesco  felt  almost  happy,  as  his  fingers 
gripped  his  sword  and  he  cantered  along  by  the  side  of  the 
duke.  The  great  heart  of  the  world  seemed  to  beat  with  his. 

"  The  day  of  reckoning  has  come  at  last!  "  he  said  to  the 
leader  of  the  free  lances. 

The  duke's  features  were  hard  as  steel.  Yet  he  read  the 
other's  humor  and  joined  him  with  the  zest  of  the  hour. 

"  You  smile  once  more!  "  said  the  grim  lord  of  the  woods, 
turning  to  the  slender  form  in  the  saddle. 

"  I  shall  smile  in  the  hour  when  the  Frangipani  lies  at  my 
feet,"  Francesco  replied  with  heaving  chest.  "  It  is  good  to 
be  strong !  " 

The  duke's  horsemen  were  scouring  ahead,  keeping  cover, 
scanning  the  horizon  for  the  Provencals.  By  noon  they  had 
left  the  open  land,  plunged  up  hills  covered  thick  with  woods. 
The  duke's  squadrons  sifted  through,  and  he  halted  them  in 
the  woods  under  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

Below  lay  a  broad  valley  running  north  and  south,  chequered 
with  pine-thickets  and  patches  of  brushwood.  On  a  hill  in 
the  centre  stood  a  ruined  tower.  Towards  the  south  a  broad 
loop  of  the  river  closed  the  valley,  while  all  around  on  the  misty 

299 


THE   HILL   OF   VENUS 

hills  shimmered  the  giants  of  the  forest,  mysterious  and 
silent.  The  duke's  outriders  had  fallen  back  and  taken  cover 
in  the  thickets.  Down  the  valley  could  be  seen  a  line  of  spears, 
glittering  snake-like  towards  the  tower  on  the  hill.  Com 
panies  of  horse  were  crossing  the  river,  pushing  up  the  slopes, 
mass  on  mass.  In  the  midst  of  the  flickering  shields  and  spears 
blew  a  great  banner  with  the  Fleur-de-Lis. 

It  was  a  contingent  of  Charles  of  Anjou,  which  had  been 
on  the  march  since  dawn.  They  had  thrown  their  advance 
guard  across  the  river  and  were  straggling  up  the  green  slopes, 
while  the  main  host  crossed  the  ford. 

The  sound  of  a  clarion  re-echoed  from  crag  to  crag:  and  down 
towards  the  river  played  the  whirlwind,  with  dust  and  clangor 
and  the  shriek  of  steel.  Spears  went  down  like  trampled  corn. 
The  battle  streamed  down  the  bloody  slope,  for  nothing  could 
stand  that  furious  charge. 

The  river  shut  in  the  broken  host,  for  the  ford  was  narrow, 
not  easy  of  passage.  From  the  north  came  the  thundering 
ranks  of  horse,  and  on  the  south  the  waters  were  calm  and 
clear.  The  Provencals,  streaming  like  smoke  blown  from  a 
fire  by  a  boisterous  wind,  were  hurled  in  rout  upon  the  water. 
They  were  hurled  over  the  banks,  slain  in  the  shallows,  drowned 
in  struggling  to  cross  at  the  ford.  Some  few  hundred  reached 
the  southern  bank,  and  scattered  fast  for  the  sanctuary  of  the 
woods. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  first  charge  the  duke's 
men  had  won  the  day.  They  gave  no  quarter;  slew  all  who 
stood. 

The  duke  rode  back  up  the  hill,  Francesco  by  his  side,  amid 
the  cheers  of  his  men. 

Southwest  they  rode  towards  the  sea,  their  hundred  lances 
aslant  under  the  autumnal  sky.  They  were  as  men  challen 
ging  a  kingdom  with  their  swords,  and  they  tossed  their  shields 
in  the  face  of  fate.  The  audacity  of  the  venture  set  the  hot 

300 


THE    ABBEY    OF    FARFA 

blood  spinning  in  their  hearts.  To  free  Conradino  from  An- 
jou's  clutches;  to  hurl  damnation  in  the  mouth  of  the  Pro 
vencals. 

As  for  Francesco,  he  was  as  a  hound  in  leash.  His  sword 
thirsted  in  its  scabbard;  he  had  tasted  blood,  and  was  hot 
for  the  conflict. 

On  the  fourth  day  they  came  upon  the  ruins  of  Ninfa,  a  town 
set  upon  a  hill  in  a  wooded  valley.  Vultures  flapped  heaven 
ward  as  they  rode  into  the  gate;  lean,  red-eyed  curs  snarled 
and  slinked  about  the  streets.  Francesco  smote  one  brute 
through  with  his  spear,  as  it  was  feeding  in  the  gutter  on  the 
carcass  of  a  child.  In  the  market  square  the  Provencals  had 
made  such  another  massacre  as  they  had  perpetrated  in  Alba. 
The  horrible  obscenity  of  the  scene  struck  the  duke's  men 
dumb  as  the  dead.  The  towns-folk  had  been  stripped,  bound 
face  to  face,  left  slain  hi  many  a  hideous  and  ribald  pose. 
The  vultures'  beaks  had  emulated  the  sword.  The  stench 
from  the  place  was  as  the  breath  of  a  charnel  house,  and  the 
duke  and  his  men  turned  back  with  grim  faces  from  the  brutal 
silence  of  that  ghastly  town. 

Near  one  of  the  gates  a  wild,  tattered  figure  darted  out  from 
a  half-wrecked  house,  stood  blinking  at  them  in  the  sun,  then 
sped  away,  screaming  and  whimpering  at  the  sight  of  the  duke, 
as  though  possessed  with  a  demon.  It  was  a  woman,  still 
retaining  the  traces  of  her  former  great  beauty,  gone  mad, 
yet  the  only  live  thing  they  found  in  the  town. 

The  duke  had  reined  in  his  steed  at  the  sight,  gone  white 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Then  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  Francesco  heard  him  utter  a  heart-rending 
moan. 

When  his  hands  fell,  after  a  lapse  of  time,  he  seemed  to 
have  aged  years  in  this  brief  space. 

"  Forward,  my  men,"  he  shouted  with  iron  mouth.  "  The 
Frangipani  shall  not  complain  of  our  swords ! " 

301 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

They  passed  out  of  Ninfa  through  the  opposite  gate.  At 
dark  they  reached  the  moors,  and  soon  the  entire  host  swept 
silently  into  the  ebony  gloom  of  the  great  forests,  which  seemed 
sealed  up  against  the  moon  and  stars. 


302 


CHAPTER  VI 


RETRIBUTION 

ENEATH  the  dark  cornices  of 
a  thicket  of  wind-stunted  pines 
stood  a  small  company  of  men, 
looking  out  into  the  hastening 
night.  The  half-light  of  evening 
lay  over  the  scene,  rolling  wood 
and  valley  into  a  misty  mass, 
while  the  horizon  stood  curbed 
by  a  belt  of  heavy  thunder 
clouds.  In  the  western  vault, 
a  vast  rent  in  the  wall  of  gray  shot  out  a  blaze  of  translucent 
gold  that  slanted  like  a  spear  shaft  to  a  sullen  sea. 

The  walls  of  Astura  shone  white  and  ghostly  athwart  the 
plains.  Sea-gulls  came  screaming  to  the  cliffs.  Presently  out 
of  the  blue  bosom  of  an  unearthly  twilight  a  vague  wind  arose. 
Gusts  came,  clamored,  and  died  into  nothingness.  The  world 
seemed  to  shudder.  A  red  sword  flashed  sudden  out  of  the 
skies  and  smote  the  hills.  Thunder  followed,  growling  over 
the  world.  The  lurid  crater  of  Vesuvius  poured  gold  upon  the 
sea,  whose  hoarse  underchant  mingled  with  the  fitful  wind. 
A  storm  came  creeping  black  out  of  the  west.  The  sea  grew 
dark.  The  forests  began  to  weave  the  twilight  into  their 
columned  halls.  A  sudden  gust  came  clamoring  through  the 
woods.  The  myriad  boughs  tossed  and  jerked  against  the 
sky,  while  a  mysterious  gloom  of  trees  rolled  back  against 
the  oncoming  night. 

The  men  upon  the  hill  strained  their  eyes  towards  the  sea, 
where  the  white  patch  of  a  sail  showed  vaguely  through  the 

303 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

gathering  gloom.  Their  black  armor  stood  out  ghostly  against 
the  ascetic  trunks  of  the  trees.  Grim  silence  prevailed,  and  so 
immobile  was  their  attitude,  that  they  might  have  been  taken 
for  stone  images  of  a  dead,  gone  age. 

The  wind  cried  restlessly  amid  the  trees,  gusty  at  intervals, 
but  tuning  its  mood  to  a  desolate  and  constant  moan.  The 
woods  seemed  full  of  a  vague  woe  and  of  troubled  breathings. 
The  trees  seemed  to  sway  to  one  another,  to  fling  strange 
words  with  the  tossing  of  hair  and  outstretched  hands.  The 
furze  in  the  valley,  swept  and  harrowed,  undulated  like  a  green 
lagoon. 

Between  the  hills  and  the  cliff  lay  the  marshes,  threaded 
by  a  meagre  stream  that  quavered  through  the  green.  A 
poison  mist  hung  over  them  despite  the  wind.  The  mournful 
clangor  of  a  bell  came  up  from  the  valley,  with  a  vague  sound 
as  of  voices  chanting. 

After  a  time  the  bell  ceased  pulsing.  In  its  stead  sounded  a 
faint  eerie  whimper,  an  occasional  shrill  cry  that  startled  the 
moorlands,  leaped  out  of  silence  like  a  bubble  from  a  pool 
where  death  has  been. 

The  men  were  shaken  from  their  strained  vigilance  as  by  a 
wind.  The  utter  gray  of  the  hour  seemed  to  stifle  them,  then 
a  sound  stumbled  out  of  the  silence  and  set  them  listening. 
It  dwindled  and  grew  again,  came  nearer:  it  was  the  smite 
of  hoofs  in  the  wood-ways.  The  rider  dismounted,  tethered 
his  foam-flecked  steed  to  a  tree  and  stumbled  up  to  where 
the  Duke  of  Spoleto  and  Francesco  stood,  their  gaze  riveted 
upon  the  ghostly  masonry  of  Astura. 

Panting  and  exhausted  he  faced  the  twain. 

"  They  have  all  died  on  the  scaffold,"  he  said  with  a  hoarse, 
rasping  voice.  "  The  Swabian  dynasty  is  no  more." 

With  a  cry  and  a  sob  that  shook  his  whole  being,  Francesco 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

For  a  moment  the  duke  stared  blankly  at  the  speaker. 

304 


RETRIBUTION 

u  And  the  Frangipani?  "  he  asked,  his  features  ashen-gray 
and  drawn. 

The  messenger  pointed  to  Astura. 

"There  is  feasting  and  high  glee:  the  Pontiff's  bribe  was 
large."  - 

Francesco  trembled  in  every  limb. 

"  Such  a  day  was  never  seen  in  Naples,"  the  messenger 
concluded  with  a  shudder.  "  To  a  man  they  died  under  the 
axe  —  the  soil  was  dyed  crimson  with  their  blood." 

There  was  a  silence. 

The  messenger  pointed  to  the  sea,  which  had  melted  into 
the  indefinite  background  of  the  night. 

Dim  and  distant,  like  a  pearl  over  the  purple  deeps,  one  sail 
after  another  struck  out  of  the  vague  west.  They  came 
heading  for  the  land,  the  black  hulls  rising  and  falling  against 
the  tumultuous  blackness  of  the  clouds. 

A  red  gleam  started  suddenly  from  the  waves.  A  quick 
flame  leaped  up  like  a  red  finger  above  the  cliff. 

The  duke  ignited  a  pine-wood  torch.  The  blue  resinous 
light  spluttered  in  the  wind. 

Three  times  he  circled  it  above  his  head,  then  he  flung  it 
into  the  sea. 

"  Bernardo  Sarriano  and  the  Pisan  galleys,"  he  turned  to 
Francesco.  "  They  are  heading  for  the  Cape  of  Circe." 

A  shout  of  command  rang  through  the  woods. 

As  with  phantom  cohorts  the  forest-aisles  teemed  with  mov 
ing  shadows. 

A  ride  of  some  five  miles  lay  between  them  and  the  Cape 
of  Circe.  Much  of  that  region  was  wild  forest  land  and  moor; 
bleak  rocky  wastes  let  into  woods  and  gloom.  Great  oaks, 
gnarled,  vast,  terrible,  held  giant  sway  amid  the  huddled  masses 
of  the  underbrush.  Here  the  wild  boar  lurked  and  the  wolf 
hunted.  But  for  the  most  it  was  dark  and  calamitous,  a  ghostly 
wilderness  forsaken  by  man. 

305 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

As  they  rode  along  they  struck  the  occasional  trail  of  the 
Crusaders  of  the  Church.  A  burnt  hamlet,  a  smoking  farm 
house  with  a  dun  mist  hanging  over  it  like  a  shroud,  and  once 
they  stumbled  upon  the  body  of  a  dead  girl.  They  halted  for 
a  brief  space  to  give  her  burial.  The  duke's  men  dug  a  shallow 
grave  under  an  oak  and  they  left  her  there  and  went  on  their 
way  with  greater  caution. 

"  There  is  one  man  on  earth  to  whom  I  owe  a  debt,"  the 
duke,  leading  the  van  beside  Francesco,  turned  to  the  latter, 
"  a  debt  that  shall  be  paid  this  night,  principal  and  interest." 

Francesco  looked  up  into  the  duke's  face,  and  by  the  glare 
of  the  now  more  frequent  lightnings  he  saw  that  it  was  drawn 
and  gray. 

"  There  lies  his  lair,"  the  duke  pointed  to  the  white  masonry 
of  Astura,  as  it  loomed  out  of  the  night,  menacing  and  spec 
tral,  as  a  thunderbolt  hissed  into  the  sea,  and  again  lapsed 
into  gloom.  "  Betrayer  of  God  and  man,  —  his  hour  is  at 
hand!"  — 

The  duke's  beard  fairly  bristled  as  he  uttered  these  words, 
and  he  gripped  the  hilt  of  his  sword  as  if  he  anticipated  a  con 
flict  with  some  wild  beast  of  the  forest,  some  mythical  monster 
born  of  night  and  crime. 

Francesco  made  no  reply.  He  was  bowed  down  beneath 
the  gloom  of  the  hour,  oppressed  with  unutterable  forebodings. 
He  too  had  an  account  to  settle:  yet,  whichever  way  the 
tongue  inclined  in  the  scales,  life  stretched  out  from  him  as  a 
sea  at  night.  He  dared  not  think  of  Ilaria,  far  away  in  the 
convent  of  San  Nicandro  by  the  sea;  yet  her  memory  had 
haunted  him  all  day,  knocked  at  the  gates  of  his  consciousness, 
dominated  the  hours.  Compared  with  the  ever  present  sense 
of  her  loss,  all  in  life  seemed  utterly  trifling,  and  he  longed  for 
annihilation  only. 

Yet  a  kindred  note  which  he  sounded  in  the  duke's  soul 
found  him  in  a  more  receptive  mood  for  the  latter's  confi- 

306 


RETRIBUTION 

dences;  once  life  had  seemed  good  to  him;  he  had  thought 
men  heroes,  the  world  a  faerie  place.  Thoughts  had  changed 
with  time,  and  that  for  which  he  once  hungered  he  now  de 
spised.  Cursed  with  perversities,  baffled  and  mocked,  the 
eternal  trivialities  of  life  made  the  soul  sink  within  him.  Not 
all  are  mild  earth,  to  be  smitten  and  make  no  moan.  There 
are  sea  spirits  that  lash  and  foam,  fire  spirits  that  leap  and 
burn,  —  was  he  to  be  cursed  because  he  was  born  with  a  soul 
of  fire? 

They  were  now  in  the  midst  of  the  great  wilderness.  On 
all  sides  myriads  of  trees,  interminably  pillared;  through  their 
tops  the  wind  sighed  and  pined  like  the  soft  breath  of  a  sleep 
ing  world.  Away  on  every  hand  stretched  oblivious  vistas, 
black  under  multitudinous  green  spires. 

The  interminable  trees  seemed  to  vex  the  duke's  spirit, 
as  their  trunks  crowded  the  winding  track  and  seemed  to 
shut  in  the  twain  as  with  a  never  ending  barrier.  And  behind 
them,  with  the  muffled  tread  of  a  phantom  army,  came  the 
duke's  armed  array  striding  through  the  night. 

"  Have  you  too  suffered  a  wrong  at  the  hands  of  the  Frangi- 
pani?  "  Francesco  at  last  broke  the  silence,  turning  to  his 
companion. 

The  latter  jerked  the  bridle  of  his  charger  so  viciously  that 
the  terrified  animal  reared  on  its  haunches  and  neighed  in 
protest. 

"  Man,  know  you  whereof  you  speak?  "  the  duke  snarled, 
as  he  came  closer  to  Francesco.  "  He  has  made  the  one 
woman  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  ever  loved  —  a  wanton!  "  - 

They  pushed  uphill  through  the  solemn  shadows  of  the 
forest.  A  sound  like  the  raging  of  a  wind  through  a  wood  came 
down  to  them  faintly  from  afar.  It  was  a  sullen  sound,  deep 
and  mysterious  as  the  hoarse  babel  of  the  sea,  smitten  through 
with  the  shrill  scream  of  trumpets,  like  the  cry  of  gulls  above  a 
storm.  Yet  in  the  aisles  of  the  pine  forest  it  was  still  as  death. 

307 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

Then,  like  a  spark  struck  from  flint  and  steel  falling  upon 
tinder,  a  red  glare  blazed  out  against  the  background  of  the 
night.  A  horn  blared  across  the  moorlands;  the  castle  bell 
began  to  ring,  jerkily,  wildly,  a  bell  in  terror.  Yellow  gleams 
streaked  the  fretted  waters,  and  again  the  trumpet  challenged 
the  dark  walls,  like  the  cry  of  a  sea-bird  driven  by  the 
storm. 

The  duke  and  Francesco  looked  meaningly  at  each  other. 
The  sound  needed  no  words  to  christen  it;  they  knew  that  the 
Pisans  had  attacked.  They  heard  the  roar  and  the  cries  from 
the  rampart,  the  cataractine  thunder  of  a  distant  battle. 

Pushing  on  more  swiftly  as  the  woods  thinned,  the  din  grew 
more  definite,  more  human,  more  sinister  in  detail.  It  stirred 
the  blood,  challenged  the  courage,  racked  conjecture  with  the 
infinite  chaos  it  portended.  Victory  and  despair  were  tram 
melled  up  together  in  its  sullen  roar ;  lif  e  and  death  seemed  to 
swell  it  with  the  wind  sound  of  their  wings.  It  was  stupen 
dous,  chaotic,  a  tempest  cry  of  steel  and  passions  inflamed. 

The  duke's  face  kindled  to  the  sound  as  he  shouted  to  his 
men  to  gallop  on.  Yet  another  furlong,  and  the  spectral  trunks 
dwindled,  the  sombre  boughs  seemed  to  mingle  with  the 
clouds,  while  gray,  indefinite  before  them,  engulfing  the  light 
nings  of  heaven,  loomed  the  great  swell  of  the  Tyrrhene,  dark 
and  restless  under  the  thunderclouds,  that  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  Ghostly  the  plains  of  Torre  del  Greco  stretched  towards 
the  Promontory  of  Circe,  and,  solitary  and  impregnable,  the 
Castello  of  Astura  rose  upon  its  chalk-cliffs,  white  in  the  light 
nings  which  hissed  around  its  summit. 

The  duke's  men  had  come  up,  forming  a  wide  semicircle 
around  the  leaders.  At  their  feet  opened  a  deep  ravine,  lead 
ing  into  the  plain;  half  a  furlong  beyond,  although  it  seemed 
less  than  a  lance's  throw  across,  rose  the  castle  of  the  Frangi- 
pani,  washed  by  the  waves  of  the  Tyrrhene.  The  Pisans  had 
attacked  the  southern  acclivity,  and  the  defenders,  roused 

308 


RETRIBUTION 

from  their  feast  of  blood,  had  poured  all  their  defences  towards 
the  point  of  attack,  leaving  the  northern  slope  to  look  to 
itself. 

As  they  rode  down  the  ravine  there  came  from  the  bottom 
of  the  valley  the  sharp  yelp  of  a  dog.  It  was  instantly  answered 
by  a  similar  bark  from  the  very  top  of  the  castello. 

"  No  two  dogs  ever  had  the  same  voice,"  the  duke  turned  to 
Francesco.  "  They  must  be  hell-hounds,  whom  the  fiend  has 
trained  to  one  tune.  But  what  is  that  yonder?  A  goat  picking 
its  way?  " 

"  A  goat  walking  on  its  hind  legs !  " 

"  Are  there  horns  on  its  head?  " 

"No!  "- 

"  Then  it  is  not  the  Evil  One !    Forward,  my  men !  " 

The  pause  that  preceded  the  breaking  of  the  storm  had  been 
unnaturally  long.  Save  for  the  gleam  of  the  lightnings,  the 
waters  had  grown  to  an  inky  blackness.  There  came  one  long 
moment,  when  the  atmosphere  sank  under  the  weight  of  a 
sudden  heat.  Then  the  ever  increasing  thunder  rushed  upon 
the  silence  with  a  mighty  roar  and  out  of  the  west,  driven  by 
the  hurricane,  came  a  long  line  of  white  waves,  that  rose  as 
they  advanced,  till  the  very  Tritons  beat  their  heads  and  the 
nymphs  scurried  down  to  greener  depths. 

And  now  a  sudden  streak  of  fire  hissed  from  the  clouds, 
followed  by  a  crash  as  if  all  the  bolts  of  heaven  had  been  let 
off  at  once.  From  the  ramparts  of  Astura  came  cries  of  alarm, 
the  din  of  battle,  the  blaring  of  horns,  the  shouting  of  com 
mands. 

The  duke  and  Francesco  had  dismounted  and  were  gazing 
up  towards  the  storm-swept  ramparts.  Shrieks  and  curses 
rolled  down  upon  them  like  the  tumbling  of  a  cascade. 

Then  they  began  to  scale  the  ledge,  the  path  dwindling  to  a 
goat's  highway. 

Above  them  rose  a  sheer  wall  on  which  there  appeared  not 

309 


THE   HILL    OF   VENUS 

clinging  space  for  a  lizard.    The  abyss  below  was  ready  to 
welcome  them  to  perdition  if  their  feet  slipped. 

After  a  brief  respite  they  continued,  the  duke's  men  scram 
bling  up  behind  them,  looking  like  so  many  ants  on  the  white 
chalk-cliffs.  The  air  was  hot  to  suffocation;  the  storm  roared, 
the  thunder  bellowed  in  deafening  echoes  through  the  skies, 
and  the  heavens  seemed  one  blazing  cataract  of  fire,  reflected 
in  the  throbbing  mirror  of  the  sea. 

They  had  reached  a  seam  in  the  rock,  where  they  paused  for 
a  moment  to  let  their  brains  rest.  There  was  hardly  room  for 
the  duke  and  Francesco  on  the  ledge,  so  narrow  was  the  rocky 
shelf,  and  the  latter  was  pushing  close  against  the  wall  when 
he  was  suddenly  forced  to  look  up.  He  heard  the  din  of  the 
encounter  above.  The  Pisans,  having  attacked  the  Frangipani 
from  the  south,  were  driving  them  out  at  the  north.  Suddenly 
two  bodies  whizzed  by  him,  thrust  over  the  ramparts  in  the 
fierceness  of  the  assault.  Another  came;  he  seemed  to  have 
jumped  for  life,  for  he  kept  feet  foremost  for  a  distance  through 
the  air,  before  he  began  to  whirl.  These  fell  clear  of  the  scaling 
party,  and  were  impaled  on  the  broken  tops  of  the  stunted 
trees,  that  bossed  the  side  of  the  precipice.  One  came  so  near 
the  duke  that  his  flight  downward  almost  blew  him  off  his 
narrow  perch.  His  head  struck  the  ledge,  while  his  body 
caught  in  the  bushes,  hung  a  moment,  then  dashed  after  its 
comrades  below. 

Just  then  the  end  of  a  rope  fell  dangling  by  their  side,  let 
down  from  the  ramparts  above.  The  duke  tried  to  grasp  it, 
but  it  shifted  beyond  the  gap.  Down  the  rope  came  a  man, 
then  another;  they  both  gained  a  foothold  on  the  narrow 
ledge.  No  sooner  were  their  feet  on  it,  than  the  duke  sent 
them  headlong  to  the  bottom.  Then  grasping  the  rope  with 
out  waiting  to  see  if  a  third  or  fourth  were  coming  down,  he 
shouted  to  Francesco  to  follow.  Perilous  as  was  the  task,  it 
was  no  more  so  than  to  follow  the  steep  and  narrow  goat's 

310 


RETRIBUTION 

trail,  and  in  a  brief  space  of  time  they  swung  into  a  courtyard 
which  was  deserted.  Anticipating  no  attack  on  this  side,  the 
defenders  of  Astura  had  turned  their  whole  attention  to  the 
southern  slope,  where  the  Pisans  were  scaling  the  walls.  The 
roar  of  the  conflict  seemed  to  grow  with  the  roar  of  the  hurri 
cane,  and,  as  one  by  one  the  duke's  men  leaped  into  the  dark 
square,  and  the  muster  was  complete,  Count  Rupert  turned 
to  Francesco. 

"  I  feared  lest  they  might  clean  out  the  nest  before  our 
arrival,"  he  said,  then,  pointing  to  a  distant  glare  of  torches, 
he  gave  the  word.  They  caught  the  unwary  defenders  hi  the 
rear.  No  quarter  was  to  be  given ;  the  robber  brood  of  Astura 
was  to  be  exterminated. 

"  Conradino !  "  was  the  password,  and  above  the  taunts 
and  cries  of  Frangipani's  hirelings  it  filled  the  night  with  its 
clamor,  rode  on  the  wings  of  the  storm,  like  the  war-cry  of  a 
thousand  demons. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  a  few  of  the  most  daring 
among  the  Pisan  admiral's  men  had  scaled  the  ramparts  and, 
leaping  into  the  Frangipani's  stronghold,  had  tried  to  pave 
a  way  for  those  lagging  behind,  their  companions-in-arms  were 
in  dire  straits.  For  those  of  Astura  poured  boiling  pitch  upon 
the  heads  of  the  attacking  party,  hurled  rocks  of  huge  dimen 
sions  down  upon  them  which  crushed  into  a  mangled  mass 
scores  of  men,  unable  to  retain  the  vantage  they  had  gamed 
under  the  avalanche  of  arrows,  rocks  and  fire. 

In  a  moment's  time  the  situation  was  changed. 

Noiselessly  as  leopards,  the  duke's  men  fell  upon  their 
rear,  raising  their  war-cry  as  they  leaped  from  the  shadows. 
Those  on  the  ramparts,  forced  to  grapple  with  the  nearer 
enemy,  abandoned  their  tasks.  The  Pisans,  profiting  by  the 
lull,  swarmed  over  the  walls.  Taken  between  two  parties, 
a  deadly  hand-to-hand  conflict  ensued.  Above  the  din  and  the 
roar  of  the  hurricane,  of  the  clashing  of  arms,  above  the  cries 


of  the  wounded,  the  death-rattle  of  the  dying,  sounded  the 
voice  of  the  Duke  of  Spoleto. 

"  Onward,  my  men!    Kill  and  slay !" 

Side  by  side  the  duke  and  Francesco  leaped  into  the  thick 
est  of  the  fray,  both  animated  by  the  same  desire  to  come 
face  to  face  with  the  lords  of  Astura,  spurning  a  lesser  enemy. 

For  a  time  they  seemed  doomed  to  disappointment.  Had 
the  Frangipani  been  slain? 

The  zest  of  the  conflict  pointed  rather  to  their  directing  the 
defence.  Else  their  mercenaries  would  have  left  Astura  to 
its  fate. 

Suddenly  an  unearthly  voice  startled  the  combatants. 

"  Guard,  devil,  guard !  " 

There  was  the  upflashing  of  a  sword,  and  a  hoarse  chal 
lenge  frightened  the  night. 

Giovanni  Frangipani  saw  a  furious  face  glaring  dead  white 
from  under  the  shadow  of  a  shield. 

He  stopped  in  his  onward  rush,  blinked  at  the  duke  as  one 
gone  mad. 

"  Damnation,  what  have  we  here?  " 

"  By  the  love  of  God,  I  have  you  now!  " 

"  Fool,  are  you  mad?  " 

The  hoarse  voice  echoed  him,  the  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  Guard,  ravisher,  —  guard!  " 

"  Ten  thousand  devils!    Who  are  you?  " 

"  Your  obedient  servant,  —  the  Duke  of  Spoleto!  " 

The  Frangipani  growled  like  a  trapped  bear. 

He  raised  his  sword,  put  forward  his  shield. 

"  On  with  you,  dog!  "  he  roared.  "  Join  your  wanton  under 
the  sod!" 

"  Ha,  say  you  so?  "  cried  the  duke,  closing  in. 

Then-  swords  flashed,  yelped,  twisted  in  the  air.  A  down 
cut  hewed  the  dexter  cantrel  from  the  Frangipani's  shield.  His 
face  with  a  gashed  cheek  glared  at  the  duke  from  under  his 

312 


RETRIBUTION 

upreared  arm.  So  close  were  they  that  blood  spattered  in  the 
duke's  face  as  the  Frangipani  blew  the  red  stream  from  his 
mouth  and  beard. 

The  duke  broke  away,  wheeled  and  came  again.  He  lashed 
home,  split  the  Frangipani's  collar-bone  even  through  the  rags 
of  his  hauberk.  The  Frangipani  yelped  like  a  gored  hound. 
Rabid,  dazed,  he  began  to  make  blind  rushes  that  boded  ill 
for  him.  The  swords  began  to  leap  and  to  sing,  while  blinding 
flashes  of  lightning  followed  each  other  in  quick  succession 
and  thunder  rolled  in  deafening  echoes  through  the  heavens. 
Cut  and  counter-cut  rang  through  the  night,  like  the  cry  of 
axes,  whirled  by  woodmen's  hands. 

Suddenly  the  Frangipani  parried  an  upper  cut  and  stabbed 
at  the  duke.  The  sword  point  missed  him  a  hair's  breadth. 
Before  he  could  guard  the  duke  was  upon  him  like  a  leopard. 
Both  men  smote  together,  both  swords  met  with  a  sound  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  rocks.  The  Frangipani's  blade  snapped 
at  the  hilt. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment  as  one  dazed,  then  plucked  out 
his  poniard  and  made  a  spring.  A  merciless  down  cut  beat 
bun  back.  His  courage,  his  assurance  seemed  to  ebb  from  him 
on  a  sudden,  as  though  the  blow  had  broken  his  soul.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  and  held  up  his  hands,  with  a  thick,  choking 
cry. 

"Mercy!     God's  mercy!" 

"  Curse  you!    Had  you  pity  on  your  victims?  " 

Thunder  crashed  overhead;  the  girdles  of  the  sky  were 
loosed.  A  torrent  of  rain  beat  upon  the  Frangipani's  streaming 
face;  he  tottered  on  his  knees,  but  still  held  his  hands  to 
the  heavens. 

"  They  lied,"  he  cried.     "  Give  me  but  life."  - 

The  duke  looked  at  him  and  heaved  up  his  sword. 

Giovanni  Frangipani  saw  the  white  face  above  him,  gave  a 
great  cry  and  cowered  behind  his  hands.  It  was  all  ended  in  a 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

moment.    The  rain  washed  his  gilded  harness  as  he  lay  with 
his  blood  soaking  into  the  crevices  of  the  rocks.  - 

Francesco  had  witnessed  neither  the  fight  nor  the  ending. 
Impelled  by  an  insensate  desire  to  find  Raniero,  to  have  a 
final  reckoning  for  all  the  baseness  and  insults  he  had  heaped 
upon  huii  in  the  past,  for  his  treachery  and  cruelty  to  Ilaria, 
he  had  made  his  way  to  the  great  hall. 

The  door  was  closed  and  locked  from  within. 

Francesco  dealt  it  a  terrific  blow.  Its  shattered  framework 
heaved  inward  and  toppled  against  the  wall. 

In  the  doorway  stood  Raniero  and  looked  out  at  his  oppo 
nent.  He  did  not  recognize  Francesco.  His  face  was  sullen; 
the  glitter  of  his  little  eyes  mimicked  the  ring  gleams  of  his 
hauberk.  He  put  out  the  tip  of  a  tongue  and  moistened  his 
lips. 

Francesco's  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  but  one 
purpose  left  in  life  and,  that  accomplished,  cares  not  what 
happens.  Raising  his  vizor,  he  said: 

"  I  wait  for  you!  " 

Raniero  broke  into  a  boisterous  laugh. 

"The  bastard!  The  monk!  Go  home,  Francesco,  and  don 
your  lady's  attire!  What  would  you  with  a  sword  ?  " 

Francesco's  mouth  was  a  hard  line.  He  breathed  through 
hungry  nostrils,  as  he  went  step  by  step  toward  Raniero. 

Then  with  a  swift  shifting  of  his  sword  from  right  to  left  he 
smote  him  on  each  cheek,  then,  lowering  his  vizor,  he  put  up 
his  guard. 

With  an  oath  Raniero's  sword  flashed,  feinted,  turned  with 
a  cunning  twist,  and  swept  low  for  Francesco's  thigh. 

Francesco  leaped  back,  but  was  slashed  by  the  point  a  hair's 
breadth  above  the  knee.  It  was  a  mere  skin  wound,  but  the 
pain  of  it  seemed  to  snap  something  that  had  been  twisted  to  a 
breaking  point  within  him.  He  gave  a  great  cry  and  charged 
down  Raniero's  second  blow. 

314 


RETRIBUTION 

Their  shields  met  and  clashed,  and  Raniero  staggered. 
Francesco  rushed  him  across  the  hall  as  a  bull  drives  a  rival 
about  a  yard.  Raniero  crashed  against  the  wall,  and  Fran 
cesco  sprang  back  to  use  his  sword.  The  blow  hewed  the  top 
from  Raniero's  shield  and  smote  him  slant-wise  across  the 
face. 

Raniero  gathered  himself  and  struck  back,  but  the  blow 
was  caught  on  Francesco's  shield.  Francesco  thrust  at  him, 
before  he  could  recover,  and  the  point  slipped  under  the  edge 
of  Raniero's  gorget.  He  twisted  free  and  blundered  forward 
into  a  fierce  exchange  of  half-arm  blows.  Once  he  struck 
Francesco  upon  the  mouth  with  the  pommel  of  his  sword, 
and  was  smitten  in  turn  by  the  beak  of  Francesco's 
shield. 

Again  Francesco  rushed  Raniero  to  the  wall,  leaped  back  and 
got  in  his  blow.  Raniero's  face  was  a  red  blur.  He  dropped 
his  shield,  put  both  his  hands  to  his  sword  and  swung  great 
blows  at  Francesco,  with  the  huge  rage  of  a  desperate  and  tiring 
man.  Francesco  led  him  up  and  down  the  hall.  Raniero's 
breath  came  in  gasps,  and  his  strength  began  to  wane. 

Francesco  bided  his  chance  and  seized  it.  He  ran  in,  after 
Raniero  had  missed  him  with  one  of  his  savage  sweeping  blows, 
and  rushed  him  against  the  wall.  Then  he  struck  and  struck 
again,  without  uttering  a  word,  playing  so  fast  upon  Raniero 
that  he  had  his  man  smothered,  blundering  and  dazed.  The 
end  came  with  a  blow  that  cut  the  crown  of  Raniero's  helmet. 
He  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  spasmodic  gesture,  lurched  for 
ward,  fell,  rolled  over  on  his  back  and  lay  still. 

For  a  moment  Francesco  stood  over  him,  the  point  of  his 
sword  on  Raniero's  throat.  He  seemed  to  waver;  then  all  the 
misery  the  Frangipani  had  inflicted  on  Ilaria  rushed  over  him 
as  in  a  blinding  cloud. 

His  sword  went  home.  A  strange  cry  passed  through  the 
hall,  then  all  was  still.  The  torch  spluttered  once  more  and 


THE    HILL    OF   VENUS 

went  out.  Francesco  was  in  the  darkness  beside  the  dead 
body  of  Raniero.  — 

Meanwhile  the  Pisans  had  succeeded  in  scaling  the  walls. 
The  clamor  of  the  fight  grew  less  and  less,  as  one  by  one  the 
defenders  of  Astura  were  relentlessly  struck  down  and  hurled 
over  the  ramparts.  The  storm  had  increased  in  violence,  the 
heavens  were  cataracts  of  fire.  — 

In  the  blood-drenched  court  the  duke  and  the  Pisan  admiral 
shook  hands.  Everything  living  had  been  slain.  Astura  was 
a  castle  of  the  dead. 

"God!  What  work!"  exclaimed  the  Pisan.  It  was  the 
testimony  wrung  from  him  by  the  stress  of  sheer  hard  fighting. 

"  One  of  the  viper-brood  still  lives,"  the  duke  turned  to  his 
companion,  kicking  with  the  tip  of  his  steel  boot  the  lifeless 
form  of  Giovanni  Frangipani. 

The  Pisan  turned  to  a  man-at-arms. 

"  Take  twenty  men!  Scour  the  lair  from  vault  to  pinnacle! 
We  must  have  that  other,  —  dead  or  alive !  " 

The  ram  had  ceased  for  the  time.  New  thunder-clouds  came 
rolling  out  of  the  west.  Flambeaux  flared  in  the  court.  Black 
shadows  danced  along  the  ghostly  walls.  The  wind  moaned 
about  the  crenelated  turrets;  sentinels  of  the  Pisans  stood 
everywhere,  alert  for  ambush. 

The  duke  and  his  companions  approached  the  door  leading 
into  the  great  hall.  It  lay  in  splinters.  Stygian  darkness  held 
sway  within. 

Suddenly  the  duke  paused,  as  if  turned  to  stone,  at  the  same 
time  plucking  his  companion  back  by  the  sleeve  of  his  sur- 
coat. 

Noiselessly  as  a  ghost  out  of  the  door  came  the  form  of  a 
woman.  She  was  tall,  exquisitely  proportioned,  and  young. 
For  a  moment  she  paused  on  the  threshold  and  looked  out 
into  the  night.  Almost  immediately  a  second  form  followed, 
and  paused  near  the  first :  that  of  a  man.  The  woman  seemed 


RETRIBUTION 

to  stare  blindly  at  the  duke,  with  wide,  unseeing  eyes,  as  one 
who  walks  in  a  sleep. 

With  a  choked,  inarticulate  outcry  the  duke  snatched  bow 
and  arrow  from  the  nearest  sentry,  and  ere  the  Pisan  could 
grasp  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw,  or  prevent,  he  set  and  sped 
the  bolt.  A  moan  died  on  the  stillness.  A  form  collapsed, 
shuddered  and  lay  still. 

The  duke  dropped  bow  and  arrow,  staring  like  a  madman, 
then  rushed  towards  the  prostrate  form. 

Bending  over  it,  a  moan  broke  from  his  lips,  as  he  threw  his 
arms  about  the  lifeless  clay  of  her  he  had  loved  in  the  days  of 
yore,  ere  the  honeyed  treachery  of  the  Frangipani  had  sun 
dered  and  broken  their  lives.  The  woman  of  the  Red  Tower 
had  expiated  her  guilt. 

He  saw  at  once  that  no  human  agency  might  here  avail. 
Death  had  been  instantaneous.  The  arrow  had  pierced  the 
heart. 

The  duke  knelt  long  by  her  side,  and  the  strong  man's  frame 
heaved  with  convulsive  sobs,  as  he  closed  the  eyes  and  mut 
tered  an  Ave  for  her  untimely  departed  soul. 

When  he  arose,  he  looked  into  the  pale  face  of  Francesco, 
whose  blood-stained  sword  and  garments  told  a  tale  his  lips 
would  not.  He  understood  without  a  word.  Silently  he  ex 
tended  his  hand  to  the  duke,  then,  taking  off  his  own  mantle, 
he  covered  therewith  the  woman's  body. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  Pisans  and  the  duke's  men  groped 
their  way  cautiously  down  the  steep  winding  path  to  the  shore. 
The  Pisans  made  for  their  ships  and  Spoleto's  men  for  the  dusk 
of  their  native  woods,  carrying  on  a  hurriedly  constructed  bier 
the  body  of  the  woman  of  the  Red  Tower. 

Not  many  minutes  had  passed  after  their  perilous  descent 
when  a  sphere  of  fire  shot  from  the  clouds,  followed  by  a  crash 
as  if  the  earth  had  been  rent  in  twain,  and  the  western  tower 
of  Astura  was  seen  toppling  into  the  sea. 

317 


THE    HILL   OF   VENUS 

Bye  and  bye  sea  and  land  reflected  a  crimson  glow,  which 
steadily  increased,  fanned  by  the  gale,  until  it  shone  far  out 
upon  the  sea. 

Astura  was  in  flames,  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  Frangipani. 


CHAPTER    VII 


FULFILMENT 


S  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  was 
breaking,  Francesco  parted  from 
the  Duke  of  Spoleto.  The  tri 
umph  of  the  night  had  changed 
to  weariness.  Almost  had  he 
lost  the  power  of  coherent 
thought.  A  great  restlessness 
preyed  upon  his  soul.  The 
Sphinx  of  Life  was  propounding 
ever  new  riddles  to  him,  which 
his  tired  brain  refused  to  solve.  The  significance  of  the  hour 
had  been  utterly  dimmed  by  the  inner  darkness.  Francesco 
was  as  a  man  who  has  lost  his  way  and  suddenly  finds  himself 
standing  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  Retreat  was  cut  off  and 
before  him  yawned  the  abyss.  The  sweet  face  of  Ilaria  seemed 
to  beckon  to  Him  from  afar,  her  memory  seemed  to  beat  through 
his  every  pulse.  They  were  both  free,  —  free  from  a  hateful 
yoke,  self-imposed  or  foreordained.  Happiness  seemed  to 
beckon  to  them.  Fate  itself  seemed  to  have  decreed  it  thus. 
What  was  he  to  do? 

During  the  long,  weary  hours  which  precede  the  breaking 
of  the  dawn,  when  an  opaque  darkness  seems  to  enshroud  the 
world,  to  oppress  it,  as  it  were,  with  unutterable  forebodings, 
Francesco  had  tossed  on  his  improvised  couch  of  dead  leaves, 
as  one  in  a  fever. 

The  real  and  the  false  goal  of  his  life  had  been  alike  obliter 
ated  by  the  events  of  a  single  night.  He  had  broken  the 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

shackles  imposed  upon  him  by  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty.  He 
had  cast  off  the  yoke  which  had  robbed  him  of  all  that  men  hold 
dear,  of  all  which  lends  zest  and  purpose  to  life.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  Church  he  was  an  apostate.  He  thought  of  the  days  at 
Monte  Cassino,  of  the  Prior,  of  the  monks.  There  now 
mingled  neither  bitterness  nor  regret  with  the  thought. 

But  the  fact  remained  that  he  stood  isolated  in  a  world  of 
strife  and  conflict.  Every  link  which  bound  him  to  the  past 
had  been  snapped  asunder.  The  friends  of  his  youth  were 
dead,  and  as  a  restless  phantom  he  was  wandering  over  the 
deserted  places,  whose  echoes  would  no  longer  respond  to  the 
calls  he  had  loved  so  well. 

The  house  of  Swabia  had  received  its  death-blow.  Fated 
from  its  cradle,  it  had  vanished  as  a  blazing  meteor,  coursing 
through  the  constellations  of  the  heavens,  causing  the  lesser 
stars  to  pale  and  hide  in  fear,  till,  rushing  upon  its  downward 
course,  it  once  more  illuminates  the  heavens  to  the  farthest 
horizon,  plunging  them  into  sudden  darkness  as  it  disappears  in 
space. 

True,  in  a  walled  city  in  far-off  Lombardy,  a  youth,  ignorant 
as  yet  of  the  great  tragedy  of  Naples,  still  pined  within  his 
gilded  prison  house.  Many  attempts  at  his  deliverance  had 
met  with  disaster.  Was  there  no  hope  for  the  last  of  the  prog 
eny  of  the  glorious  Emperor  Frederick  the  Second? 

He,  Francesco,  was  free.  No  bonds  fettered  his  mood,  no 
chains  his  desires.  Should  he  journey  to  Bologna?  Should  he 
devote  his  life  to  the  task  of  delivering  from  his  jailers  the  last 
rightful  claimant  of  these  realms,  King  Enzo  of  minstrel's 
fame?  Should  he  bring  a  last  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  the 
cause  he  had  unwittingly  deserted,  the  victim  of  another's 
will? 

Should  he  remain  with  the  forces  of  the  Duke  of  Spoleto* 
join  him  in  his  excursions  and  become  as  one  of  those  non 
descripts,  whom  chance,  some  unexpiated  crime  or  a  private 

320 


FULFILMENT 

quarrel,  had  assembled  in  the  camp  of  the  redoubtable  Rupert 
of  Teck? 

Francesco's  finer  sensibilities  shrank  from  an  existence 
bearing  the  stigma  of  the  life  of  an  outlaw.  He  instinctively 
felt  that,  once  he  lost  the  final  control  of  himself,  once  he 
permitted  the  waves  of  destiny  to  sweep  away  the  last  barriers 
defended  by  his  own  free  will,  the  sheer  weight  of  his  own 
despair,  clogging  his  actions,  would  drag  him  down  to  depths 
hitherto  unfathomed,  an  abyss  lighted  up  by  the  fires  of  Hell 
and  resounding  with  the  shrieks  and  the  laughter  of  the 
damned.  He  must  regain  his  hold  on  life,  —  he  must  conquer 
the  Sphinx,  with  its  ever  mocking  smile  and  inscrutable  gaze, 
else  the  ancient  myth  would  be  repeated,  —  the  Sphinx  would 
sit  brooding,  but  triumphant,  upon  his  self-dug  grave. 

He  thought  of  Ilaria  at  San  Nicandro,  and  by  some  strange, 
and  to  himself  unaccountable,  trick  of  the  brain  the  thought  of 
the  woman  of  the  Red  Tower  leaped  into  his  memory.  Before 
his  inner  gaze  these  two  seemed  to  confront  one  another  with 
a  deadly,  mysterious  hatred,  as  two  rivals,  longing  for  nothing 
so  much  as  each  other's  annihilation.  As  he  thought  of  the 
untimely  death  of  the  woman,  whose  very  name  and  antece 
dents  were  veiled  in  deepest  mystery,  Francesco  felt  a  great 
wave  of  pity  for  her  well  up  hi  his  heart,  as  for  one  who  had 
perchance  been  more  sinned  against  than  she  had  sinned. 

Gradually  her  form  faded  from  memory,  in  which  the  image 
of  Ilaria  throned  supreme  as  ever,  in  its  white  and  spotless 
purity. 

Ilaria !     Ilaria ! 

How  many  times  had  his  lips  whispered  her  name  to  his 
heart,  as  they  came  slowly  winding  down  the  barren  chalk- 
cliffs  of  Astura? 

How  would  she  receive  the  tidings? 

What  was  she  doing  at  San  Nicandro? 

Was  she  pining  away  her  days  and  nights,  stung  by  the 

321 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

swift  and  lasting  regret  of  their  parting,  hoping  that  he  might 
return  and  release  her,  even  against  her  own  will? 

Had  she  taken  the  final  vows,  the  step  that  would  irrevocably 
part  them  forever,  cause  their  lives  to  ebb  away  hi  the  barren 
channels  of  hopelessness  and  despair  for  evermore?  - 

Was  she  thinking  of  him  at  this  hour,  even  as  his  thoughts 
had  been  of  her  hi  his  waking  hours,  hi  his  dreams? 

How  would  she  receive  the  messenger? 

How  would  he,  Francesco,  face  her  with  the  fateful  tidings? 

His  hands  were  stained  with  Raniero's  blood,  though  it  had 
been  a  fair  fight.  For  his  death  Francesco  felt  neither  gladness 
nor  remorse.  He  had  deserved  it  a  thousand-fold. 

Nevertheless,  faint  misgivings  were  creeping  cold  into 
Francesco's  heart-strings. 

A  strange,  inscrutable  being,  Ilaria  might  deem  the  chasm 
widened,  her  fine  sensibilities  might  revolt  against  touching 
the  hands  which  had  reached  into  her  life  for  its  doing  or  un 
doing. 

The  death  of  his  hopes,  the  wreck  of  his  career  had  now 
produced  a  diffidence  hi  Francesco,  which  caused  him  to 
waver,  instead  of  obeying  the  first  impulse  which  had  irresist 
ibly  compelled  him  towards  San  Nicandro. 

What  held  the  future?  Was  the  outer,  active  life  ended  with 
the  fall  of  Astura  and  the  death  of  the  Frangipani?  Should 
he  try  to  win  Ilaria?  And,  should  her  scruples  vanish  before 
his  pleading,  what  existence  had  he  to  offer  her?  At  the  court 
of  Avellino,  he  might  have  risen  to  any  position,  however 
exalted.  Even  in  the  service  of  the  Church  he  might  have 
become  a  dominant  factor,  though  loneliness  would  be  forever- 
more  his  lot. 

But  now?    His  solitude  had  become  truly  unapproachable. 

As  a  wind-blown  leaf  he  was  being  wafted  hither  and  thither. 
Dared  he  again  speak  to  Ilaria  of  love,  he  who  had  no  place 
whereon  to  lay  his  own  weary  head?  — 

322 


FULFILMENT 

A  vast  calm  hung  upon  the  lips  of  the  day.  The  sky  was 
still  a-glitter  with  sparse  stars.  An  immensity  of  gloom  brooded 
over  the  sea. 

About  him,  scattered  in  the  wood,  slept  the  men  of  the  duke. 
With  an  inward  shudder  Francesco  turned  his  eyes  from  the 
unsympathetic  forms.  Nevermore  could  he  be  one  of  them. 
Their  coarseness  palled  on  him,  their  lusts  and  low  appetites 
repelled.  While  the  Duke  of  Spoleto  himself  shared  these 
characteristics  to  a  degree,  yet  there  was  something  in  the  mas 
ter  which  commanded  the  respect  that  was  denied  his  menials. 

By  degrees  Francesco  gained  the  strength  of  his  resolve. 

As  the  last  arbiter  of  his  destiny,  he  would  place  his  fate  in 
Ilaria's  hands,  for  never  had  he  permitted  man  or  woman  to 
probe  the  depths  of  his  spirits'  prison-house,  nor  was  there  one 
to  draw  the  spirit  forth. 

As  the  sun  rose  and  wood  and  valley  glimmered  as  in  a 
smoking  mist,  Francesco  became  more  self-contained.  The 
orb  of  day  seemed  to  illumine  the  path  he  was  to  choose  and 
thus  he  set  forth  upon  the  journey  towards  his  destiny. 

Like  a  plague-stricken  land,  where  brother  fears  brother 
and  friend  mistrusts  friend,  Terra  di  Lavoro  brooded  in  deso 
late  silence.  The  papal  interdict  had  withered  life  and  joy. 
No  sanctuary  was  open,  no  mass  was  sung.  The  sick  perished 
without  the  sacrament,  new-born  babes  were  deprived  of  the 
baptismal  fount.  The  beggar-monks  had  increased  as  a  plague 
of  locusts  ;;their  black  bands  swarmed  over  the  Neapolitan  Cam- 
pagna,  promulgating  the  degrees  of  the  pontiff,  paralyzing  the 
last  remnants  of  loyalty  to  the  ill-fated  house  of  Swabia.  Every 
where  sullen,  glowering  faces  met  the  gaze  and  superstitious 
fear  aided  in  accomplishing  what  even  the  Provencals  had  not 
so  far  been  able  to  achieve,  the  complete  downfall  of  all  who 
had  sympathized  with  the  Ghibelline  cause  —  the  triumph  of 
the  Vicar  of  God,  steeped  in  the  blood  of  the  executioner's  axe 
at  the  Bay  of  Naples. 

323 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

Francesco  did  not  pursue  his  path  with  the  traveller's  cus 
tomary  eye  of  admiration,  as  he  spurred  his  steed  to  greater 
haste  towards  the  cliffs  of  San  Nicandro,  nor  was  the  scene 
which  spread  before  him  one  very  animating  or  inspiring. 

All  was  silent,  void  and  hushed,  and  even  the  light  of  heaven 
reflected  a  blinding,  oppressive  glare.  Of  the  few  cottages 
by  the  roadside  some  were  closed  up,  some  wide  open,  but  all 
seemingly  inmateless.  The  plough  stood  still,  the  distaff  plied 
not;  there  was  a  darker  curse  upon  the  land  than  the  black 
plague,  which  was  to  hold  its  deadly  harvest  in  these  regions 
a  half-century  hence.  It  was  the  papal  interdict.  Now  and 
then  some  forlorn  straggler,  clad  in  the  coarse  garb  of  a  peas 
ant,  or  the  gloomy  vestment  of  a  friar,  crossed  the  deserted 
road,  staring  with  livid  and  amazed  countenance  at  the  lone 
horseman,  then  crossing  himself  and  vanishing  beneath  some 
roof,  from  whose  entrance  peered  the  sullen  visage  of  its 
starving  owner. 

Impatient  and  well-nigh  despairing,  Francesco  spurred  his 
steed  through  the  sun-fraught  expanse.  He  had  partaken  of 
no  food  since  the  previous  day;  his  strength  was  almost  ex 
hausted  and  his  senses  reeled  under  the  relentless  rays  of  the 
scorching  noonday  sun. 

He  almost  fell  from  his  horse  as  he  reached  a  hostelry  in  a 
wild,  barren  region,  sloping  by  degrees  towards  the  forests, 
towering  in  the  distant  mountains.  His  repeated  calls  eliciting 
no  response,  Francesco  dismounted  and,  fastening  his  steed 
to  an  estrada  in  which  the  door  stood  slightly  ajar,  started  to 
enter,  but  stopped  as  soon  as  he  had  set  foot  upon  the  thresh 
old.  The  interior  was  strewn  with  corpses  of  women  and 
men,  huddled  together  on  the  floor,  weltering  hi  their  own 
blood.  Whatever  the  nature  of  the  tragedy  might  have  been, 
Francesco  turned  almost  as  quickly  as  he  had  entered  and, 
remounting  his  steed,  followed  the  trail  leading  to  the  moun 
tains. 

324 


FULFILMENT 

It  was  verging  towards  evening  when  the  cliffs  and  turrets 
of  San  Nicandro,  touched  by  the  parting  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
rose  sombre  and  silent  athwart  the  west. 

As  Francesco  drew  near  the  height,  a  strange  revulsion  of 
feeling  seized  upon  him.  A  great  bitterness,  such  as  he  had 
not  experienced  since  the  day  when  Ilaria  had  gone  from  him, 
welled  up  in  his  soul.  For,  knowing  his  great  need  of  her, 
knowing  how  jealously  he  had  guarded  the  portals  of  his  soul 
from  the  prying  glances  of  the  many,  knowing  that  she  was  his 
last  refuge  in  his  hour  of  doubt  and  need,  she  had  cast  him 
out  into  outer  darkness,  to  fight  the  uneven  battle  of  life  as 
best  he  might,  while  she  had  sought  refuge  in  the  sheltered 
haven  of  the  cloister,  far  from  the  strife  of  the  world,  far  above 
the  echoes  of  the  crimson  waves  which  rolled  over  the  devas 
tated  lands. 

In  the  ban  of  these  conflicting  emotions  his  sense  of  right 
and  wrong  seemed  for  the  time  to  have  become  utterly  blurred. 
He  was  as  one  dazed.  He  did  not  perceive  the  great  unselfish 
ness  of  the  woman's  love,  her  pride  which  had  compelled  the 
sacrifice.  For  while  Raniero  lived,  she  could  be  nevermore 
his  own. 

Hardly  he  knew  how  he  would  face  her,  and  as  he  slowly 
climbed  the  height,  his  fears  increased,  fanned  by  dark  and 
gloomy  forebodings. 

If  he  was  too  late! 

At  the  thought  a  dizziness  seized  him,  as  one  who  looks 
down  from  a  great  height  upon  the  dwindling  trail  by  which 
he  scaled  the  summit.  It  lasted  for  apace,  then  he  shook  it 
off. 

His  head  erect,  though  defeated  in  life  and  hope  and  happi 
ness,  he  rode  on.  As  he  walked  his  horse  with  a  hollow  thun 
der  of  hoof  over  the  narrow  bridge  which  spanned  the  broken 
rocks,  he  took  his  horn  and  blew  a  blast  thereon. 

There  was  a  sense  of  desolation,  of  lifelessness  about  the 

325 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

place  that  smote  his  senses  with  a  strange  fear.  The  walls 
stared  void  against  the  sky.  There  was  no  stir  nor  sound 
within,  no  watchful  face  at  portal  or  wicket.  Only  the  gulls 
circled  round  the  cliffs  and  the  sea  made  its  moan  along  the 
rocky  strand. 

Francesco  sat  in  his  saddle  and  looked  from  wall  to  belfry, 
from  tower  to  gate.  There  was  something  fateful  about  the 
place,  something  tragic,  as  the  silence  of  a  sacked  town,  the 
ghostliness  of  a  ship  sailing  the  seas  with  a  dead  crew  upon 
her  decks.  Francesco's  gaze  rested  on  the  open  postern.  As 
he  did  so,  his  face  darkened,  and  the  life  went  out  of  his  eyes. 
There  was  something  unspeakable  in  this  voiceless  calm, 
something  seemed  destined  to  turn  the  brain  to  stone  with 
the  sheer  horror  of  its  vague  imaginings. 

Slowly,  as  in  the  thrall  of  a  dark  dream,  he  rode  across  the 
bridge,  looking  about  him  as  if  he  expected  some  dread  ap 
parition  to  bar  his  way. 

Again  and  again  he  called.  No  living  being  answered.  No 
voice  broke  the  stillness,  which  encompassed  the  walls  of 
San  Nicandro. 

Permitting  his  steed  to  roam  at  random,  he  entered  the 
open  portals  of  San  Nicandro.  The  purple  light  of  dusk  began 
to  alter  through  the  tall,  narrow  windows  of  the  chapel.  The 
sight  which  met  his  eyes  froze  the  blood  hi  his  veins.  Dead 
bodies  covered  the  floor;  the  bodies  of  the  nuns  of  San  Ni 
candro.  Yet  there  was  no  sign  of  violence  or  bloodshed.  And 
as  he  stood  his  hands  went  to  his  head. 

The  wings  of  the  great  destroyer  seemed  to  rustle  in  the 
dusk. 

Francesco's  face  was  as  grey  as  the  faces  of  the  dead.  There 
was  something  here,  a  horror,  a  mystery,  that  froze  the  very 
soul  within  him. 

With  a  look  of  despair  he  rushed  from  one  body  to  another, 
turning  the  dead  faces  to  the  waning  light,  fearing  lest  every 

326 


FULFILMENT 

one  must  be  that  of  his  own  Ilaria.  But  Ilaria  was  not  among 
the  dead;  the  mystery  grew  deeper,  grew  more  unfathomable. 
For  a  moment,  Francesco  stood  among  the  dead  nuns  as  if 
every  nerve  in  his  body  had  been  suddenly  paralyzed,  when 
his  eyes  fell  upon  a  crystal  chalice,  hah*  overturned  on  the 
floor. 

He  picked  it  up  and  held  it  against  the  waning  light.  It 
contained  the  remnants  of  a  clear  fluid.  He  held  it  to  his 
nostrils.  It  fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers  upon  the  stone  and 
broke  into  a  thousand  fragments,  a  thin  stream  creeping  over 
the  granite  towards  the  fallen  dead. 

It  was  a  preparation  of  hemlock  and  bitter  almonds.  He 
stared  aghast,  afraid  to  move,  to  call. 

The  nuns  had  poisoned  themselves. 

Like  a  madman  he  rushed  into  the  adjoining  corridor,  hither 
and  thither,  in  the  frantic  endeavor  to  find  a  trace  of  Ilaria. 
Yet,  not  a  trace  of  her  did  he  find.  But  what  he  did  discover 
served  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  grewsome  feast  of  death 
which  he  had  just  witnessed. 

In  a  corner  where  he  had  dropped  it,  there  lay  a  silken  ban 
derol  with  the  emblem  of  the  Fleur-de-h's.  Anjou's  Proven 
cals  had  been  here,  and  the  nuns,  to  escape  the  violation  of 
their  bodies,  had  died  by  their  own  hands,  thus  cheating  the 
fiends  out  of  the  gratification  of  their  lusts. 

The  terrible  discovery  unnerved  Francesco  so  utterly  that 
for  a  time  he  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone,  looking  about  him  like 
a  traveller  who  has  blindly  stumbled  into  a  charnel  house. 

Urged  by  manifold  forebodings,  he  then  rushed  from  cham 
ber  to  chamber,  from  cell  to  cell.  The  same  silence  met  him 
everywhere.  Of  Ilaria  he  found  not  a  trace.  Had  the  fiends 
of  Anjou  carried  her  away?  Had  she,  in  endeavoring  to  escape, 
found  her  death  outside  the  walls  of  San  Nicandro? 

He  dared  not  think  out  the  thought. 

The  shadows  of  the  place,  the  staring  faces,  the  stiff  hands 

327 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

and  fingers  clawing  at  things  inanimate,  were  as  weird  phan 
tasms  of  the  night. 

It  had  grown  dark,  and  with  the  darkness  the  horror  of  the 
scene  increased.  Francesco  stared  immobile  into  space.  He 
seemed  as  one  utterly  paralyzed.  His  knees  refused  longer 
to  support  his  tottering  frame.  He  seated  himself  upon  a 
block  of  marble  which  had  at  one  time  supported  the  statue 
of  some  saint,  now  precipitated  from  its  base  and  lying  broken, 
face  downward,  among  the  grass.  The  odor  of  late  roses 
made  very  death  more  apparent  to  his  soul. 

The  night  was  dark  and  moonless  and  he  dared  not  trust 
himself  down  the  narrow  and  precipitous  goats-trail  which 
wound  from  the  heights  of  San  Nicandro  into  the  green  wilder 
ness  below. 

Francesco  arose,  brought  in  his  steed,  and  after  having 
tethered  it  to  a  tree  inside  the  court,  he  returned  to  his  im 
provised  seat  and,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  alone  with 
his  Maker,  he  watched  throughout  the  night.  Not  a  sound 
broke  the  stillness.  He  seemed  to  have  been  lifted  out  of  the 
world  of  strife  into  a  sphere  of  peace,  —  the  peace  of  those 
who  have  at  last  learned  the  great  secret  of  the  Beyond. 

Had  there  been  one  near  to  watch,  he  might  have  seen  the 
man's  body  sway  to  and  fro  as  if  racked  by  convulsions;  he 
might  have  heard  moan  after  moan  escape  his  lips,  like  the 
eerie  cry  of  a  ghost.  But  there  was  no  one  near  him  in  his 
hour  of  anguish,  and  when  the  dawn-light  again  flooded 
mountain  and  valley,  Francesco,  pale  and  haggard  of  face, 
seemed  to  have  aged  years  in  that  single  night. 

Yet  as  the  sun  rode  higher  in  the  heavens,  hope,  star-eyed, 
returned  once  more  into  Francesco's  heart.  Every  nook  and 
corner  in  San  Nicandro  had  he  searched,  without  discovering 
a  trace  of  his  lost  one.  There  was  a  chance,  that  she  might 
have  escaped,  —  the  thought  lent  zest  to  his  purpose  and 
raised  his  broken  spirit  anew. 

328 


FULFILMENT 

Through  the  reddened  woods  he  rode,  calling  her  name; 
inquiring  of  every  itinerant  friar,  of  every  beggar,  of  every 
chance  wayfarer,  if  they  had  seen  a  woman,  a  nun,  young  and 
fair  of  face,  and  many  a  curious  glance  was  vouchsafed  him 
in  return,  as  those  he  questioned  denied  any  knowledge  of 
having  met  such  a  one. 

Every  wayside  shrine  he  entered,  every  chapel,  in  his 
hopeless  quest.  The  herons  flapped  their  wings  and  flew  away 
when  his  voice  resounded  through  the  forest  sanctuaries,  and 
the  voices  of  nature  seemed  hushed  in  awe  before  his  de 
spairing  call. 

On  the  eighth  day  of  his  hopeless  quest  Francesco  found 
himself  upon  a  dreary  heath,  by  the  waters  of  the  Nera,  and 
saw  the  Campanile  of  St.  Juvenal  rise  above  Narni.  In  the 
distance  a  trumpet  brayed  and  died  to  silence,  like  the  cry  of 
a  ghost. 

Where  two  roads  branched  off  in  opposite  directions,  Fran 
cesco  sat  upon  his  horse,  undecided  which  to  take,  when  he 
sighted  a  dark  procession  emerging  from  a  cypress-grove  and 
disappearing  in  the  valley  beyond,  a  procession  of  nuns,  garbed 
in  long,  shroud-like  robes  and  hymning  in  solemn  dirge  the 
imploring  line :  "  Miserere !  Miserere !  " 

Filled  with  dread  and  misgiving,  Francesco  followed  them 
with  his  gaze  until  they  vanished  from  sight.  He  saw  them 
turn  down  a  narrow  lane,  remote  from  the  road,  and  disappear 
behind  the  portals  of  a  cloister,  which  for  the  first  time  revealed 
itself  to  Francesco's  gaze.  Beyond  this  cloister,  half  hidden 
in  the  fading  green  of  autumn,  lay  vineyards  and  olive-groves, 
while  to  northward  Camaldoli  reared  its  towers,  battlements 
and  spires  into  the  darkening  horizon. 

At  the  base  of  a  gently  sloping  hill  stood  the  cloister,  to 
which  Francesco  had  been  attracted  by  the  strange  procession, 
which  had  vanished  behind  its  massive  doors  of  bronze.  They 
stood  ajar,  as  if  the  nuns,  anticipating  no  intruder,  had  neg- 

329 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

lected  to  bar  the  portals,  once  the  barriers  between  the  world 
and  a  sphere  no  layman's  foot  dared  profane. 

Permitting  his  steed  to  graze  under  the  wide-spreading 
branches  of  the  oak  trees,  which  surrounded  the  sanctuary, 
Francesco  entered  the  refectory  of  the  cloister.  It  was  de 
serted.  Through  a  high  and  narrow  casement,  sunk  deep  hi 
the  massive  walls  almost  directly  above  the  space  where  he 
stood,  an  errant  ray  of  sun-light  streamed  into  the  purple 
dusk. 

While  scanning  his  surroundings  in  quest  of  some  living 
object,  Francesco  perceived  a  chapel  close  by.  Through  the 
painted  windows  gleamed  faintly,  dimmed  by  the  noonday 
sun,  the  light  of  tapers.  Francesco  stared  aghast.  Who  dared 
defy  the  interdict,  offer  divine  adoration  before  altars  profaned 
and  deserted? 

Approaching  with  noiseless  steps,  he  entered  the  sanctuary 
and  beheld  a  single  nun  kneeling  in  silent  prayer  before  a 
duskily  illumined  shrine.  Impressed  with  the  desolation  and 
sanctity  of  the  place  and  the  touching  sight  of  this  solitary  and 
unselfish  bride  of  Christ,  Francesco,  forgetful  of  thirst,  hunger 
and  fatigue,  obeyed  but  the  mastering  impulse  of  his  heart. 
He  knelt  unseen  by  the  nun,  while  his  lips  offered  up  a  fervent 
prayer  for  one  ray  of  light  in  the  gloom  which  oppressed  his 
soul. 

As  he  rose,  somewhat  relieved,  the  nun  rose  also,  and, 
startled  by  the  sound,  turned  her  head.  But  no  sooner  had 
their  eyes  met,  than  with  a  half-delirious  outcry,  they  rushed 
into  each  other's  arms. 

"Haria!" 

"  Francesco ! " 

For  a  time  they  remained  locked  in  silent  embrace.  Neither 
spoke,  as  if  each  dreaded  to  break  the  spell  which  once  again 
had  woven  its  magic  around  them. 

Only  their  eyes  and  hearts  held  silent  converse. 

330 


THE     HILL     OF     VENUS 

Placing  his  arm  about  her,  Francesco  led  Ilaria  from  the 
sanctuary,  out  under  the  trees. 

His  eyes  were  silently  searching  the  woman's  face  as  he 
imparted  to  her  the  events  of  the  days  since  they  had  parted, 
ending  with  the  storm  and  the  destruction  of  Astura. 

She  listened  breathlessly,  but  he  saw  her  face  grow  wan  and 
pale  as  his  tale  progressed,  as  if  she  dreaded  to  hear  that  which 
she  instinctively  felt  would  assail  her  ears. 

Francesco  felt  a  great  shudder  pass  through  her  body.  Her 
eyes  grew  big  with  fear. 

"  Raniero?  "  she  spoke  at  last.  Yet  it  sounded  more  like 
the  whisper  of  a  ghost. 

He  had  not  told  her,  though  she  had  guessed  the  truth  long 
ago. 

"Dead!" 

A  great  silence  held  for  a  time.  Ilaria's  head  sank  upon  his 
shoulder. 

After  a  time,  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  wonderful 
calm,  as  if  peace  had  at  last  entered  the  chambers  of  the  tor 
tured  soul. 

A  transient  sunbeam  pierced  the  branches  and  wove  its 
golden  halo  about  the  two. 

Through  the  forest  aisles  rode  the  Duke  of  Spoleto. 

He  saw,  understood  and  paused. 

"  I  leave  this  accursed  land  to  join  the  forces  of  Rudolf  of 
Hapsburg,"  he  bellowed  through  the  trees.  "  My  men  are  at 
your  disposal.  I  shall  await  you  on  yonder  hillock." 

He  wheeled  his  charger  about  and  was  gone. 

Again  silence  held  for  apace. 

Francesco's  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  nun's  garb  of  the 
woman  and  his  face  revealed  the  fear  that  was  hi  his  heart. 
He  had  withdrawn  his  supporting  arm  from  Ilaria,  and,  point 
ing  to  her  garb,  he  queried,  with  the  voice  of  one  dead: 

"  Is  it  too  late?  " 

33i 


THE    HILL    OF    VENUS 

Looking  up  into  his  face,  she  saw  the  dread  in  his  eyes, 
spreading  as  a  veil  over  the  great  love  which  shone  therein. 

A  wan  smile  flitted,  ghostlike,  about  the  pale  lips. 

"  The  dark  dream  has  passed,  —  I  was  near  death  and 
madness,  but  now  all  is  well  again,  —  I  see  the  dawn." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  she  crept  very  close  to  him, 
smiling  up  at  him  with  the  old-time  smile  through  tear-dimmed 
eyes. 

For  a  time  a  great  silence  held,  as  if  the  fates  of  two  souls 
were  being  weighed  in  the  scales  of  Destiny. 

It  was  Francesco  who  spoke. 

"  How  you  have  suffered !  " 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  banish  the  mem 
ory. 

And  Francesco  took  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  eyes,  her 
lips  and  the  sylph-like,  flower-soft  face. 

The  sky  burned  azure  above  the  tree-tops.  Transient  sun- 
shafts  quivered  through  the  vaulted  dome  of  breathless  leaves, 
as  Francesco  and  Ilaria  strode  towards  the  camp  of  the  Duke 
of  Spoleto  on  the  sun-bathed  hillock  above  the  Nera. 


The  End. 


332 


POLLYANNA 


E/eanor  H.  Porter 


Author  of  "  Miss  Billy,"  "  Miss  Billy's  Decision."  etc. 


/  2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  net  $1.25;  postpaid  $1.40 


"  ENTER  Pollyanna!  She  5s;the  daintiest,  dearest,  most 
irresistible  maid  you  have  met  in  all  your  journeyings  through 
Bookland.  And  you  forget  she  is  a  story  girl,  for  Pollyanna 
is  so  real  that  after  your  first  introduction  you  will  feel  the 
inner  circle  of  your  friends  has  admitted  a  new  member.  A 
brave,  winsome,  modern  American  girl,  Pollyanna  walks  into 
print  to  take  her  place  in  the  hearts  of  all  members  of  the 
family." 


Of  "  Miss  Billy  "  the  critics  have  written  as  follows: 

"  To  say  of  any  story  that  it  makes  the  reader's  heart  feel  warm  and 
happy  is  to  pay  it  praise  of  sorts,  undoubtedly.  Well,  that's  the  very  praise 
one  gives  '  Miss  Billy.'  "  — Edwin  L.  Shuman  in  the  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  The  story  is  delightful  and  as  for  Billy  herself  —  she's  all  right.'  "  — 
Philadelphia  Press. 

"  There  is  a  fine  humor  in  the  book,  some  good  revelation  of  character 
and  plenty  of  romance  of  the  most  unusual  order."  —  The  Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

"  There  is  something  altogether  fascinating  about  '  Miss  Billy,'  some 
inexplicable  feminine  characteristic  that  seems  to  demand  the  individual 
attention  of  the  reader  from  the  moment  we  open  the  book  until  we  reluc 
tantly  turn  the  last  page."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  book  is  a  wholesome  story,  as  fresh  in  tone  as  it  is  graceful  in  ex-  5 
pres?ion,  and  one  may  predict  for  it  a  wide  audience."  — Philadelphia  Pub-  J 
lit  Ledger.  £ 

"  Miss  Billy  is  so  carefree,  so  original  and  charming,  that  she  lives  in  the  £ 
reader's  memory  long  after  the  book  has  been  laid  aside."  —  Boston  Globe,  i 

"  You  cannot  help  but  love  dear  '  Billy;  '  she  is  winsome  and  attractive  J 
and  you  will  be  only  too  glad  to  introduce  her  to  your  friends."  —  Brooklyn  * 
Eagle.  J 

l&3Q&&XX®C&aK^^ 


THE    GOLDEN    ROAD 

l^g  $jf  L.  M.  Montgomery  »p? 

Author  of ' '  Anne  of  Green  Gables,  "  "  Anne  of  Aoonlea, ' ' 

' '  Chronicles  of  Aoonlea,  "  "  The  Story  Girl, ' ' 

"  Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard.  "  etc. 

1 2 mo,  cloth  decorative,  with  frontispiece  in  full  color,  from  a 
painting  by  George  Gibbs.     3^et  $1.25  ;  postpaid  $1.40 

UNDEK  the  guidance  of  Sara  Stanley,  that  fascinating 
"weaver  of  dream  stories,"  the  happy,  fun-loving  group 
introduced  by  Miss  Montgomery,  travel  down  ' '  the  golden 
road"  to  the  parting  of  ways  in  this  new  story.  Old 
friendships  are  renewed  with  the  simple  folk  of  Prince 
Edward  Island,  with  its  orchard-embowered  homes  and 
fertile  meadows  and  groves  of  spruce.  The  adventurings 
of  the  King  family,  as  chronicled  in  a  daily  newspaper, 
which  is  aided  and  abetted  by  the  heathen  Peter,  with  its 
headline  features  of  the  long-expected  romance  which  enters 
into  the  life  of  pretty  Aunt  Olivia,  the  return  of  a  prodigal, 
which  strangely  enough  causes  temporary  anguish  instead  of 
joy  to_one  childish  heart,  and  what  happens  to  the  Awkward 
Man,  will  give  delight  for  many  a  day  to  all  members  of  the 
family,  young  and  old. 

Miss  Montgomery  again  proves  that  she  is  a  distinct  aqui- 
sition  to  American  literature  and  entitled  to  a  place  of  honor 
as  the  writer  of  stories  which  "  uplift  the  spirit  and  drive 
the  pessimist  into  bankruptcy." 


THE  CAREER  OF  DR.  WEAVER 

By  Mrs.  Henry  W.  Backus  Jpa 

* 

/ 2mo,  clolh  decoralioe,  illustrated,  net  $1 .25 ;  postpaid  $1 .40 


A  BIG  and  purposeful  story  interwoven  about  the  respon 
sibilities  and  problems  in  the  medical  profession  of  the  pres 
ent  day.  Dr.  Weaver,  a  noted  specialist,  and  head  of  a  private 
hospital,  had  allowed  himself  to  drift  away  from  the  stand 
ards  of  his  youth  in  his  desire  for  wealth  and  social  and  scien 
tific  prestige.  When  an  expose  of  the  methods  employed  by 
him  in  furthering  his  schemes  for  the  glorifying  of  the  name 
of  "  Weaver  "  in  the  medical  world  is  threatened,  it  is  frus 
trated  through  the  efforts  of  the  famous  doctor's  younger 
brother,  Dr.  Jim.  The  story  is  powerful  and  compelling, 
even  if  it  uncovers  the  problems  and  temptations  of  a  physi 
cian's  career.  Perhaps  the  most  important  character,  not 
even  excepting  Dr.  Weaver  and  Dr.  Jim,  is  "  The  Girl,"  who 
plays  such  an  important  part  in  the  lives  of  both  men. 


"  The  story  becomes  one  of  those  absorbing  tales  of  to-day  which  the 
reader  literally  devours  in  an  evening,  unwilling  to  leave  the  book  until  the 
last  page  is  reached,  and  constantly  alert,  through  the  skill  of  the  author,  in 
following  the  characters  through  the  twisted  ways  of  their  career."  — Boston 
X   Journal. 

CD 

53        "  The  story  is  well-written,  unique,  quite  out  of  the  usual  order,  and  is  most 
J3    captivating,"  —  Christian  Intelligencer .  tf 


K88SX&Sf$Q^^ 


THE    BLOSSOM    SHOP 


A  Story  of  the  South 


3y  Isla  May  JKullins 

Cloth     decorative,      illustrated     by    John    Coss.    Net    $1.00; 
postpaid  $  1 . 1 '5 


ONE  of  those  exquisitely  simple  and  appealing  stories  of 
mother  love  and  sacrifice  for  a  little  blind  daughter,  written 
in  a  delightful  vein,  combining  humor  and  pathos.  The 
reader  will  love  little  blind  Eugene  (the  child  had  received 
the  name  of  her  dead  father)  and  will  rejoice  with  the  brave 
young  mother,  the  heroine  of  the  story,  when  the  child's 
sight  is  restored.  There  is  a  time  for  rejoicing,  too,  when 
a  lost  will  is  found,  bringing  wealth  and  release  from  all 
worries,  and  the  young  mother  is  free  to  accept  the  love  and 
protection  that  in  her  sorrow  she  denied  herself. 

Southern  types  are  amusingly  contrasted  with  those  of  the 
North ;  and  the  simple  language  and  fine  sentiment  of  the 
story  will  charm  readers  of  all  ages. 


JOHN   O'    PARTLETTS' 

ean  Edgerton  Hovey  *J0|V 

/ 2mo,  doth  decorative,  illustrated,  net  $1.25; 
postpaid,  $1.40 


THE  reading  public  is  no  longer  content  with  the  old 
hackneyed  love  story,  the  impossible  mystery  story  or  the 
superficial  tale  of  adventure.  It  is  necessary  that  a  novel 
to  be  successful  shall  appeal  to  the  best  in  us  —  shall  grip 
our  hearts  and  fill  our  thoughts.  Few  first  books  by  a  new 
writer  can  supply  such  an  exacting  demand,  but  "  John  0' 
Partletts'"  is  among  these  few.  Its  simple,  straightfor 
ward  plot ;  its  able  and  convincing  portrayal  of  character  — 
real  character;  the  author's  mastery  of  her  art — these  are 
the  elements  which  make  the  book  worthy  of  wide  apprecia 
tion.  No  one  character  dominates  the  story,  neither 
"  Witch  "  Beevish,  the  eccentric  old  woman  at  war  with  the 
village,  nor  Jim,  the  little  orphan,  nor  Henry  Carruthers, 
the  minister,  nor  even  Kitty  Merryweather,  the  shrewd- 
tongued  gossip.  But  if  there  is  a  hero  it  is  John  O'  Part 
letts',  "Witch"  Beevish's  great  dog,  the  friend  and  pro 
tector  of  Little  Jim. 

This  is  a  story  to  compare  with  "  Rab  and  His  Friends  " 
and  with  "  A  Dog  of  Flanders  "  —  a  story  that  is  bound  to 
make  its  way. 

&Q^^ 


THE  WHAT-SHALL-I-DO  GIRL 


Or,  The  Career  of  Joy  Kent 
fly  Isabel  Woodman  Waiti 


1 2mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated  by  Jessie  Gillespie. 
Net$l. 25 ;  postpaid  $1.40 


WHEN  Joy  Kent  finds  herself  alone  in  the  world,  thrown 
on  her  own  resources,  after  the  death  of  her  father,  she  looks 
about  her,  as  do  so  many  young  girls,  fresh  from  the  public 
schools,  wondering  how  she  can  support  herself  and  earn  a 
place  in  the  great  business  world  about  her.  Still  wondering, 
she  sends  a  letter  to  a  number  of  girls  she  had  known  in  school 
days,  asking  that  each  one  tell  her  just  how  she  had  equipped 
herself  for  a  salary-earning  career,  and  once  equipped,  how 
she  had  found  it  possible  to  start  on  that  career.  In  reply 
come  letters  from  the  milliner,  the  stenographer,  the  librarian, 
the  salesgirl,  the  newspaper  woman,  the  teacher,  the  nurse, 
and  from  girls  who  had  adopted  all  sorts  of  vocations  as  a 
means  of  livelihood.  Real  riendly  girl  letters  they  are,  too, 
not  of  the  type  that  preach,  but  of  the  kind  which  give  sound 
and  helpful  advice  in  a  bright  and  interesting  manner.  Of 
course  there  is  a  splendid  young  man  who  also  gives  advice. 
Any  "  What-shall-I-do  "  young  girl  can  read  of  the  careers 
suggested  for  Joy  Kent  with  profit  and  pleasure,  and,  perhaps, 
with  surprise! 


Selections  from 
L.  C.  Page  and  Company's 
List  of  Fiction 


WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 

Each  one  vol.,  library  12mo,  doth  decorative          .         „       $1.50 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  GEORGIANA 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  DAYS  OF  THE  YOUNG  PRETENDER,  Illus 
trated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  A  love-story  in  the  highest  degree,  a  dashing  story,  and  a  re 
markably  well  finished  piece  of  work."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

THE  BRIGHT  FACE  OF  DANGER 

Being  an  account  of  some  adventures  of  Henri  de  Launay,  son 
of  the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire.  Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
"  Mr.  Stephens  has  fairly  outdone  himself.  We  thank  him 

heartily.    The  story  is  nothing  if  not  spirited  and  entertaining, 

rational  and  convincing."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  MURRAY  DAVENPORT 

(40th  thousand.) 

"  This  is  easily  the  best  thing  that  Mr.  Stephens  has  yet  done. 
Those  familiar  with  his  other  norels  can  best  judge  the  measure 
of  this  praise,  which  is  generous."  —  Buffalo  News, 

CAPTAIN  RAVENSHAW 

OR,  THE  MAID  OF  CHEAPSIDE.  (52d  thousand.)  A  romance 
of  Elizabethan  London.  Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and 
other  artists. 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artaguan  have  we  had 
anything  so  good  in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and  comedy. 

THE  CONTINENTAL  DRAGOON 

A   ROMANCE   OF   PHILIPSE   MANOR   HOUSE   IN   1778.     (53d 
thousand.)    Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards 
A  stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  with  its  scenes  laid  on 
aeutral  territory. 


L.    C.   PAGE   &   COMPANY'S 


WORKS  OF 

L.  M.  MONTGOMERY 
ANNE  OF  GREEN  GABLES 

Illustrated  by  M.  A.  and  W.  A.  J.  Glaus.     12mo        .     $1.50 
"  Anne  of  Green  Gables  "  is  beyond  question  the  r»ost  popu 
lar  girl  heroine  in  recent  years.     Poets,  statesmen,  humorists, 
critics,  and  the  great  public  have  lost  their  hearts  to  the  charm 
ing  Anne. 

"  In  '  Anne  of  Green  Gables  '  you  will  find  the  dearest  and 
most  moving  and  delightful  child  since  the  immortal  Alice." 
—  Mark  Twain  in  a  letter  to  Francis  Wilson. 

ANNE  OF  AVONLEA 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.     12mo       .        .        .        .     $1.50 

In  this  volume  Anne  is  as  fascinating  as  ever,  and  the  author 
has  introduced  several  new  characters. 

"  Here  we  have  a  book  as  human  as  '  David  Harum,'  a  hero 
ine  who  outcharms  a  dozen  princesses  of  fiction,  and  reminds 
you  of  some  sweet  girl  you  know,  or  knew  back  in  the  days 
when  the  world  was  young."  — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"  A  book  to  lift  the  spirit  and  send  the  pessimist  into  bank 
ruptcy!  "  —  Meredith  Nicholson. 

CHRONICLES  OF  AVONLEA 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.  12mo.  Net,  $1.25;  postpaid,  $1.40 
"  The  author  shows  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  humanity, 
great  insight  and  warm-heartedness  in  the  manner  in  which 
some  of  the  scenes  are  treated,  and  the  sympathetic  way  the 
gentle  peculiarities  of  the  characters  are  brought  out."  — 
Baltimore  Sun. 

THE  STORY  GIRL 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.     12mo       .        .        .        .     $1.50 
"  A  book  that  holds  one's  interest  and  keeps  a  kindly  smile 
upon  one's  lips  and  in  one's  heart  as  well."  —  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

"  The  book  is  full  of  sprightly  humor,  the  quaint  conceits 
and  the  genuine  understanding  of  youth,  which  mark  so  ex 
cellently  the  various  chronicles  of  ANNE."  —  New  York  World. 

KILMENY  OF  THE  ORCHARD 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.     12mo  j    .  $1.50 

"  A  story  born  in  the  heart  of  Arcadia  and  brimful  of  the 

sweet  and  simple  life  of  the  primitive  environment."  —  Boston 

Herald. 


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